Dancing in the Moonlight

Buggers.

2012-02-04T04:22:00.001-08:00

Today I am leaving to go to my youngest sister's baby shower.
My youngest sister
My baby sister
is having a baby.

I cannot even express the feelings of sheer joy that well up inside me when I think on God's kindness and how it is displayed in so many different ways in peoples lives. And I think of how sweet it is to for Him to give this sweet couple this particular gift at this particular time in their life.

Sarah is my Buggers, my Bug-a-boo, my Buggy.

I was trying to remember the origin of these nicknames. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that she is and has always been just as cute as a bug...although I think that phrase is supposed to be button...whoops. My bad. Too late to change it now! ;) But anyways, it got me thinking a little bit about my past years with Sarah as a sister.

I know when it comes to our childhood that we have a tendency to block unpleasant memories out until everything is covered in a golden glow of nostalgia. But when I look back at Sarah and her personality in the Jensen girl tri-fecta, I can honestly say that for the majority Sarah's days were spent in quiet love and quiet servitude.

She always had a way of calming me down just by listening to a bad day. And she always knew how to make Bethany feel lest restless on any given afternoon just by riding passenger seat on a trip into town.

(To this day I still hold that she makes the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Although I will admit that the discovery of this fact came from sheer laziness and cashing in on her willing ability to always do that of which she was asked.)

Now just because I have made mention of Sarah's quiet-natured spirit when it comes to serving others, does not by default mean that she is a generally quiet person. This is quite the misconception. Anyone that has been able to have the pleasure of really knowing Sarah, knows that she is anything far from quiet.

Memories of jumping off piers pretending to be ducks, her affinity for playing dress up whenever her grade-school friends came over, dancing in living rooms, talent shows, her obsession with knocking me over with her hips, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, these are just some of the images that flash across the fore front of my mind. Recently I saw a picture of Sarah completely sealed into a comforter storage bag, with only her head popping out. I couldn't stop laughing to myself and thinking, "Yes, this is so something she would do."

The other aspect of Sarah's personality that anyone would be quick to agree with who knows her, would be how she is our family "healer". A lot of times one might assume that someone as meek as she is, might not have really been all that thrilled growing up at the sight of blood or any type of squeamish ailment. But Sarah was our nurse. Scrapes, bruises, sprains, colds, you name it, if Sarah could be in the room helping with a cool rag or a band aid to place, she would be there. And unlike some who are intrigued solely by the gore itself, there was something deeper with Sarah. She just wanted the person to feel better. That was her main pull. And whatever she could do to help in that, she would do with gentleness and precise care.

Sarah's name means princess. And I suppose this is entirely accurate...if it is the kind of princess that cares more for her "country" then herself. While it is true that Sarah enjoys things to be a certain way, an enjoy-er of order and all things pretty, she much more enjoys seeing others content and at peace. She used to have domain over 50 different stuffed animals and would rotate each one to sleep with her at night so that the others wouldn't feel bad. This is a true fact.

Her Kingdom may have lessened when she got married. Going from 50 to just Ryan...but now we look forward to February's end, where they will have one more in their home.

There is not a doubt in my mind, that this quiet servant/princess, who knows how to laugh and how to heal and how to care, is going to be one amazing mom.

I know this to be true, because she is one amazing sister.

It's about that time.

2012-01-21T05:37:00.001-08:00

No, Mom.
Not baby time. This isn't an announcement ;)

It's about that time rather, that I start making a discipline of writing again. Oh sure, I've never really stopped altogether. I'll jot verses or thoughts in my calendar as a shoddy attempt to remember certain events or things that God did. But it's not the same. And so then I find myself walking around in a perpetual state of self loathing, asking myself ever so often, "and why haven't you processed through that thought on paper?" Or this one pops up a lot too. "You are not skilled at any form of house work, cooking, baking or the like. You can only use the "I like writing better" card if you are actually writing."

And while I hate to admit it, I think my sub-conscious has a point. Granted, I can be a bit hard on myself sometimes (as the creative psyche always tends to be), but the fact of the matter remains. Why am I NOT doing the thing I love to do? I can't play the blame game here because all of the other suspects have an alibi. No time? Not true. You just finished season 9 of Scrubs with your husband. No resources? False. You are a 2 apple computer family. No ideas? Seriously? You work with Jr. Highers. They are a creative gold mine for writing material.

I have a little post card on my desk (right next to this AMAZING picture of my niece. It's this one right here:

The card says, "a consistent life is not a perfect life."
I have gone back and forth about this little ditty for a little while. And I think I have come to agree with it. I think. Granted, in the Christian walk, I don't want to use this as a wild card. I'm not saying that we can all give up hope of perfection or holiness and chalk up mediocrity to a life of sinful consistency. Not at all. The reason I like this reminder is that it encourages us to press on in the midst of failure.

So I am giving myself permission to have some pretty lame pieces of writing take place in this space and to let myself know that while each post may not be perfection, if I want to be a consistent writer, then words without blemish won't be part of the equation. It also frees me up to write about...well whatever I want I suppose.

I think a big reason I have steered clear of this whole gig is because I've forgotten that it's ok to have fun with it too. Sometimes with my Jr. High girls I get in these panic modes, where I feel like I only have a certain amount of time to communicate God's truth to them in their life and I have to remind myself in my lessons, that we are all still kids at heart, all of us just looking to hear a good story, and that they are God's handiwork, NOT mine.

This gives me more liberty as well. That it's God who has given me this desire and I don't have to be the one dreaming up life altering prose at the dawn of each day. It is my responsibility to be obedient and listen to my Creator every day, but it's Him who blesses the words and draws them forth.

So. With perfection out of the equation and liberty in it's place.

I say again to myself, (gathering up courage):

Jessi, It's about that time.

Christmas Musings.

2011-12-17T06:10:00.000-08:00

I really do enjoy all the festivities at this time of year.
We've been so blessed. Such an abundance of God's provision in our family and in our friendships and places of work.

But no holiday party or Christmas program, can outshine the blessed peace that comes from an early waking, met with snow-covered ground, and quiet time with the Savior of the World.

There are no words to describe such sweet communion as that.

She's a maniac on the floor.

2011-11-12T23:35:00.000-08:00

The big news around town lately is that the neighborhood grocery store is being bought out by their competition. These stores everywhere are having mad blowout sales to get products off of their shelves. Apparently this was all over the television and radio airways, but my tendency to be a media groundhog made this discovery reveal itself to me at 8:30 at night when I went to buy some apple juice and cinnamon sticks, aka, the poor man's version of apple cider.

Huge mistake. Not only did it feel like the Apocalypse had struck, with everyone vying for the shopping carts and running up and down aisles grabbing things like pickled beets and rutabaga, but the lines were especially long.
(We are talking grab your gear and set up camp kind of long.)

In the midst of all this chaos, I had the best intentions of remaining cool,calm, and collected. However... those who know me are well acquainted with the fact that crowds are not my forte. Thinking that I had the whole chaotic check-out thing licked I walked right on over to the self-checkout. The method to this madness was the inkling that no hoarder of 30 mayonnaise tubs and their train of carts was going to want to do the work of checking out their OWN spoils. It was a fool proof plan.

Basking in the glow of my self pronounced genius, I sauntered up behind a pregnant lady who (while she had a cart full of food) also had a two person stroller. The tactic behind that choice lay hidden in the quiet and split second reasoning that this lady would most likely be adept at multi-tasking. She obviously had two kids and one on the way, but aside from that decided to schlep them along to the Rockford event of the century at 9:00 at night. I immediately concluded that she was one of those mom warriors. The kind that can make grilled cheese with one hand while folding laundry with the other. Oh yeah. There was no doubt in my mind that we would be out of there in a split second. So I patted myself on the back once more for this my second keen observation skill of the evening and began daydreaming about what it would be like to work as an apple cider drinking FBI agent. She went to grab the last item in her cart and I grabbed a couple dollars from my purse to check out next.

As soon as she finished scanning her last jar of generic barbecue sauce and she began to reach for what I presumed to be her wallet, she instead grabbed the sun roof to her stroller and pushed down the cover. Horror struck. I'd been sorely misled. For there was no rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby cargo occupying those seats. Just more canned goods.
And so on she went.
Scanning....and scanning...and scanning...

beep.
beep.
beep.

It was like a rare form of Chinese water torture. And it began to get the best of me. The walls started caving in. My heart rate started pounding. Just moments away from panic, I remembered the kind-hearted words that my husband always whispers to me in these situations of irrational angst:"Get a HOLD of yourself, woman!" So I muttered this to myself. A few times actually. And it began to work. I began to see myself minutes away from my hot cup of apple cinnamon delight.

beep
beep
beep.

It seemed like a lifetime passed me by. I actually contemplated what to get my unborn nephew for his 16th birthday. Time was crawling by, but I had managed to keep the crazy under control.

This tactic however, was short lived when much further into her scanning I noticed out of the corner of my peripheral vision...a binder. A very THICK binder. It wasn't a trapper keeper or daily planner. We are talking one of those binders with the ability to hold massive amounts of paperwork. The accordion binder. NOT unlike those that I had seen on TV with the CCL. The crazy coupon ladies. Calling back on my aforementioned FBI worthy skills of observation, I narrowed in on the suspect.

No sooner than she had bagged her last container of hummus, she opened the foreboding binder compartment. What she pulled out with her pristine, pink nails was not cash. At that moment my worst fears were confirmed. I had been duped again. She was clutching coupons. Mass amounts of them.

More time passed. I began to wonder if my husband had sent out the search troops.
The more she kept beeping, the closer she pushed me to the edge...

It's amazing what the mind is capable of. At one point I remember envisioning myself committing copious amounts of handcuff worthy material. Most to all of which involved lighting things on fire with my apple juice as lighter fluid, and using the coupons to feed the blaze. True, that particular liquid may not be the scientific equivalent of propane or gasoline, but in the moment, while clutching my $ 1 dollar gallon of Juicy Juice, I seemed to think that it was no only perfectly logical, but also perfectly just. I would be the Robin Hood of this land...or at least this line...and rightfully give people back what was taken from them. Their Wednesday night.

Alas,what could I do but watch in horror.
Reason somehow sunk in. I'd come that far. To engage in crimes of arson would surely not have brought me any closer to my end goal. So instead, I stood. Rendered helpless by the pregnant coupon queen and her money saving ways.

While it is true that restraint showed it's face to some degree and I may not have set the store a-blaze, I will say that the evening came to a close with what I would like to refer to as a less than koshir moment.

Blame it on the late hour or perhaps even on the jealousy that her bill ended up being just as much as mine...
Whatever the case may be or the reasoning behind it, you can rest assured that I took all my pent up anger about the entire evenings events and used it to fuel one of the most hard core, soul shaking, earth shattering...

eye roll/sigh combination that the likes of this town had ever seen. I also accompanied it with a slam of my cinnamon sticks into the bagging area. True, she may have ventured off at that point. But I know she must have felt it. Even the overseeing self-check out clerk could feel it. Oh yeah. He didn't say anything, but he knew. This lady had just been served a slice of "You've GOT to be kidding me" pie. And I did NOT give her a discount.

Booh.Yah.

Not all those who wander...

2011-09-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

Whenever I've been in difficult situations that I would like to quit, I often find myself bitter and muttering the mantra, "I don't belong here". It's an age old,emotive cry that musical artists and authors have expressed over the years. Anyone that has been in circumstances like a taxing job environment or a new school,for example, have most likely felt that same painful sense of "not getting it" or "not fitting in" that usually rears it's ugly head through anger and isolation.

In the past, I have used it as a way to separate myself from the problem's origin, and in so doing, excuse myself from any responsibility or disappointment. If I don't belong here, then it is not my burden to bear. In essence, I give myself a "get out of jail free" card.

Lately, however, I've been learning that just as the rules apply in that of Monopoly, so do they hold true in life in the sense that I have been giving myself passes I am not at liberty to give. In fact, if I truly am the Christ follower that I profess to be, I cannot be looking for ways to avoid adversity for myself or the ones I love.

It's true. I don't belong here. I have a Home in eternity being prepared for me at this moment even as I write this(John 14:3). But just because my citizenship is elsewhere, does not mean that I'm allowed to "check out" of my temporary state when things get tough. And they will get tough. I live in a fallen world of sinners of which I myself am one. A sinner saved by her Savior, but a sinner nevertheless.

So it's because I don't belong here that I am called, rather commanded (Matthew 28:19), to stay the course so that others can come to know the same glory that their Creator has waiting for them as well.

Yes, I may be an alien in this world, but this does not mean that I am without a mission. And it's the times when I am tempted most to turn my back on the call, on the job, on the individual, on the location, that He asks me to remain. And in the remaining, perhaps have one more person realize, that they don't belong here either.

Terms of Endearment

2011-07-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

This is my Bumblelina.
When she laughs, the world is perfect.

A Day for Fathers.

2011-06-17T21:31:00.000-07:00

Dad,
I just wanted to make sure that I told you, to make sure that you knew,
how much I love you. And how proud I am that you are my Dad. The older I get (yikes!), the more I am aware that what you and mom have given to us in our lifetime is not only a gift, but a rare one at that. Beyond the fraternal wisdom or maternal care, you both point to something more. Someone more. And that is one of the reasons you are such a great Dad. Because you've never claimed to be perfect. You've always only ever shown the way to the One who is.

Happy Father's Day,Dad.
Love,
The Eldest and your fellow word lover.

Introductions.

2011-05-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

These are my grandparents.
My mom's mom and dad.
His name is Andy and her name is Stella.
I call them PopPop and Grandma.
Whenever we came to visit when we were younger,
they would buy oatmeal cream pies, and make homemade meatballs.
We'd roller skate in their basement and play on my grandma's beauty chair...even though we weren't supposed to. Most days we'd go "down street" and run some errands. The post office, or get gas, sometimes stop for an ice cream. One of our favorite things to do was to drive a ways to the natural spring and fill up gallons of water to take home.
We still take drives to that spring.
We don't fit into the roller skates anymore, but when we visit we do things like go thrift store shopping together, or go on long walks. We like walking a lot. Grandma will show us her new line dancing moves and command us to dance for her too. While we tell her we don't know how, PopPop will say, "Stella, they don't want to do it!" and then squeeze our hands and slip us a 20 dollar bill.
They have a porch that is great for eating watermelon.
One night I guess the two of them were eating one and spit the seeds into the grass.
The next year they had their very own watermelon off that very porch. I saw pictures.
My grandma goes to mass. When we go with her I think she is happy just to have her family all there.
PopPop always asks us at breakfast what he can get us. "More cereal? More fruit? You need some hard boiled eggs? We'll make some", he always says.
One weekend my sisters and I drove up by ourselves to be with them.
We went to the center and played Bingo. It was the most fun I think I had all that year. They wanted to take us out to eat to Perkins with a coupon they had. But when they pulled into the parking lot they realized it was expired. So we just went home and had left over meat balls on sand which bread.
They taste even better the next day.
My favorite is when grandma gets into a laughing fit and can't stop crying. Also, when PopPop get's a twinkle in his eye and does something out of ordinary. Like put a hat on sideways, or put a rabbit pelt on his head and say "look, it grew back!".
The two of them are still in love.
When Grandma hurt her hip, PopPop took care of her every day.
She said that "Andy and prayer" was what brought her back.
Grandma knows how to pray. She talks to God all the time about everything.
About her family most of all.
When she hurt her hip, she was pretty sad.
Probably because she couldn't dance. They love going to the dance.
"It's how we met", she always tells me. They'd go every day if they could.
PopPop buys lottery tickets every day. I think it's the Powerball.
He doesn't buy it so he can be a millionaire.
He does it so if he wins he can give it to his kids.
He's never said that, but you just know that about him.
Something you can be sure of about Grandma, is that if you are sick,
you are drinking olive oil.
She uses it on everything and for everything.
My sister hid once from her at our old house in Williams Bay. She had a sore throat and thought Grandma would tell her to drink it. She was right. She did. And Bethany did. And cried.
Now I use it for lot's of things too and when I do, I think of her.

Sometimes I wish they didn't live so far away.
Because I could definitely go for a long walk this spring morning,
holding both their hands, and being thankful that their blood is in my veins.

Why I am falling in love with Jr. High.

2011-05-11T19:49:00.000-07:00

The other day someone asked me what it was like working with Jr. Highers.

At that exact moment in time, I found myself at a loss for the right words to describe what that opportunity is like.

But as I walked back to our apartment tonight,I thought back on so many of our evening's events and decided that maybe I do have the words after all.

It goes a little something like this:

Can I go to the bathroom?

Bieber Fever!

We broke up.

Again.

WHAT ARE WE DOING TONIGHT??????

I don't like that flavor ice cream.

I just spilled ice cream all over her shirt.

Can the 4 of us go to the bathroom?

I am in a play this weekend!

We won our basketball game!

School was horrible today and I want to never ever ever go back there ever again.

Want to read my story? It is about a princess who is a Ninja.

OK SERIOUSLY wHAT ARE WE DOING TONIGHT???

Guys, let's sit with the 8th grade boys.

Can I have another bowl?

I don't know how to play this game.

Wait, what are the rules?

I heart Justin Bieber.

I really miss my brother. Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers I am alive.

8th grade guys are so dumb.

There is a bully at my school. I don't like going.

Will you do my homework for me PLEEEEAAASSEEE.

I stayed up til' 4:00 in the morning WAHOOOO!!!

Which do you like better Unicorns or Platypi?

I just drank a mountain dew.

I don't know what to do. My friends all swear and I don't want to.

You don't dance very good.

I just threw up.

She just threw up.

My dad left. I don't think he's coming back.

I have a bagillionzillionkatrillion pieces of homework to do!!!

I don't wear deodorant. I don't need it yet.

Can the 8 of us use the bathroom?

I don't think she likes me. She had a party and I wasn't invited.

I hate my hair.

Ninja Ninja Ninjas, you are so beast, beast, beast.

Ok, next week, let's all dress up like we are nerds or something.

I ate something off of the floor and I am not sure what it was. Also, I don't feel well.

I wish more of my friends knew Jesus.

It's my birthday next week and I am turning 13 and guess what guess what guess what...I get to be on Facebook!

That lesson from last week...I really needed to hear that. It reminded me that God knows what I am going through.

What is it like working with Jr. Highers? One of the craziest, messiest,most hysterical and random rides you will ever take in your entire life. But it is one fraught with moments of the Divine. They are the moments that shine bright amidst the chaos. The moments in a growing child's life when you actually get to witness the hand of God molding one His son's or daughters. It is a responsibility that we do not take lightly and a privilege that we do not take for granted.

If you ever get the chance to talk to one of these hundred mile per hour human beings, I encourage you to listen closely. You never know what's between each line.

he is my favorite.

2011-04-06T18:43:00.000-07:00

I love my husband.
I just wanted to take a moment to brag on him.

Yesterday, the first words out of his mouth after I had shared a blessing of God's provision were, "We need to pray right now and thank God for this."

To have a man that turns to God in crisis is a blessing.
But to have a man that turns to Him in abundance is a joy beyond comparison.

And I can't believe I get to call this one mine.

Snapshots and a Few Thoughts.

2011-02-02T11:37:00.000-08:00

Earlier this fall I had the privilege of spending an afternoon with a delightful five-year-old girl. We had just finished building a miniature log cabin with some wood scraps when the rest of her family ventured out to begin that evening’s bonfire. Not uncommon to most family activities, someone had brought their camera and began taking a few snapshots to remember the day. I was about to suggest a swinging door for the small front entryway when my play date tapped me on the arm and handed me a stick saying “hold this like this”. She then pointed in front of us to her mom who was about to take our picture. So we sat in close to each other and smiled and the picture was taken. Nothing too unusual except for what happened next. She asked her mom for the camera and walked it back over to me with the digital screen reflecting our pose. And then in the middle of a golden, September evening, that same five-year-old girl looked over and asked me, “Jessi, do we look cute?”

The question was a simple one and not something unlike what I would ask one of my sisters regarding a pair of jeans. But what caught me off guard was the age of this young inquirer and her acute awareness of self-imagery.

A few weeks later my husband and I were walking through the local mall and passed by a mother and three kids. Amidst a flurry of the youngest crying, and the two year old throwing Cheerios on the ground, the eldest daughter (around ten or so) kept insisting that her picture be taken mimicking the model in the store window. Now it’s been a few years since I was that age, but for the life of me I can’t seem to recall such urgency for documentation of my days. I remember a time when taking pictures of birthday cakes or catching a fish down at the dock meant we smiled because our parents told us to. Not because we were wanted to reassure ourselves of our cuteness.

It’s not just grade-schoolers. In fact, the more I come to know and love the Jr. High girls I am able to work with, the more I see this same way of thinking in their social mediums. Countless photos are found on Facebook of individuals taking their own picture from an arm’s length, all with various captions labeling each photo as “me”, “my new hair-cut”, or “just bein’ me”. I’ve even had a few girls come up to me with pictures on their phones saying “Don’t I look good here?”
You-tube is another venue where this line of thinking can be found. It is inundated with homemade videos starring the self. Just the other day one of our patients at work, after waking up from her surgery, insisted that her mother film her groggy antics for her to post on You-tube. Over and over again she mouthed, “film me, film me, film me, Mom”.

However it is not the self-portrait that I find particularly incriminating. Lots of the world’s great artists drew, sculpted, or wrote about “the Self”. But what is discouraging is the intensity and the frequency the adolescent mind seems to be consumed with their appearance.

True to my easily defensive nature I tried blaming this issue on several things. The first being Facebook itself. Such an easy target with tools to create ones own profile and publish images to validate that identity. But although this seemed to be an easy explanation it didn’t account for the fact that my 5-year-old friend was acquainted with this pattern of thinking as well and she is nowhere near a Facebook account. So that possibility was out.

Then there was the old standby- television. Older generations have been blaming behavioral issues on that box for years. Yet while the shows may have changed (arguably for the worse), the medium remains the same. Marshall McLuhan, philosopher and communication theorist, advocates an extremely convincing argument that the medium of television itself is in fact the message. On the basis of this philosophy it seemed that there was nothing new under the sun that would cause such a me-focused behavioral change.

Another possible scapegoat I explored was the digital camera. It could be argued that the digital age has only fostered an insatiable desire for instant gratification. But could the lack of film processing really be the sole culprit of a growing self ware, self-absorbed generation? It seemed too easy.

Truth be told, I’m not sure how long I would have gone on pointing fingers at anything or anyone other than myself, had one of my small group students not revealed a specific and humbling story. Over the course of one of our studies, she shared how her and her friends always sit in the upper balcony at church. One particular service she could not help but notice the deaf interpreter who always came to church to sign for just one woman. She shared how touched she was by his servitude and dedication and that it convicted her to emulate those same characteristics.

She “couldn’t help but notice.” I’ve always been told that those around us are watching what we do, but what I had failed to realize up until that point, is that it’s so much more than that. Not only do we have a younger generation noticing us, they are also processing and incorporating what they see into their daily lives.
So the answer then to where our youth are drawing their awareness of self-awareness, is not from networking system, machine, or digital immediacy at all. But rather those they are imitating on a daily basis. Me! My generation! Our youth are paying closer attention to us than we think. Which leads us to the sobering conclusion that the message we are sending out lately is the elevated importance of the question “How am I looking?” When in actuality, in all matters and at all times it should be, “How am I living?”

The Arctic Tundra.

2010-11-05T13:21:00.000-07:00

I would like to take a few moments to discuss what I am assuming is an unspoken, but highly debated topic between married couples today. It is a conflict that, quite frankly, was not mentioned during our pre-marital counseling and as the seasons have changed, so has my understanding of this other human being that I live with. Now, I in no way, shape, or form regret the decision I made to marry my husband. I love and adore that man with all that I am. It is, however, my hope that other warm blooded, single individuals may learn from my naivete, so that they can prepare themselves for the all powerful and ever present angst of the wars that can rage within a home.

Truth be told, there were signs. All throughout our dating history. But of course at that time I did not see them for what they were. At that time the fact we were complete opposites in this realm was something I found endearing and (I shudder to think of it now) even "cute". But woe to the woman who is blinded all too long by loves hand. For her day will come. And when it does, she will find herself donning long johns and clinging to cupfuls of hot tea.

That's right folks. I am not talking about communication or finance arguments here. I am talking pure thermostat upheaval and what it is like living with a towering Yeti who apparently cannot survive in temperatures any higher than 50. I on the other hand, am a tropical bird-content to flit about in the heat and humidity of a well warmed, 75 degree home.

As you can imagine, abominable snowman would never survive a day in the rain forest any more than a Toucan would fair in the icy Antarctic. However, since our utility bill cannot afford to have the heat on with the windows open, this bird and her Yeti have resorted to a less sophisticated and often tumultuous strategy of attaining "optimum core body temperature".

There is no elaborate design to this dance. It mostly involves sneaking and turning things on. And off. And on again.

Take for example this afternoon. I walked in the door to temperatures mimicking that which I had just escaped outside and a husband who wasn't home. I can't be sure because I was mildly on the brink of hypothermia and hallucinations, but it appeared that many of our household appliances and foliage even had a thin layer of frost covering their surfaces. In order to save our plant's lives and my own, I quickly upped the thermostat to a balmy 80 degrees, threw on a pot of tea, and mummified myself in blankets.

But paradise does not last forever. I am not quite sure how he does it without me knowing. We have a one bedroom apt. with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all combined. If someone is clipping their toenails in the bathroom, you hear it while you are eating your dinner, this is how humble our abode is. And yet SOMEHOW, with a quick flick of the wrist, he always manages to kill my happiness and contentment with one turn of the dial. If we didn't go over our finances together each week I would invest in some sort of expensive alarm to catch him in his thieving ways. That and a large space heater.

Lately however, this temperature tango has escalated to new heights and has gotten flat out competitive. I know I am blessed to be married to a man with a sense of humor and most of the time he actually makes me laugh quite hard. But in situations dealing with such delicate issues such as this, there are certain things that I would not categorize under revelry or jovial banter.

Of of these new "games" consists of ambushing the down comforter off of the entire bed after I have just started to drift off to sleep and begin to think I will feel my limbs again. Every night I run from one cold room to another seeking sweet relief in the only sanctuary that always embraces me with warmth. And on occasions, those sacred moments of normalcy are met with cynical laughter and strong arm dangling the blanket over my icicle toes.

There are other tales I could tell of what it is like living in a large freezer involving things like ice cube attacks, restricted dryer using times, and fan wars.
But it is my fear that stories such as this would completely swear one of of entering into matrimony altogether. Which of course is not my intent at all. There are of many ways to prepare for these kinds of differences and to ensure for a blissful home-life together... such as registering for a fireplace instead of a cutting board.

And truly, if you end up lucky enough to marry your best friend, the thing that will make the arctic tundra temperatures wars so worth it is the fact that you have them there to cuddle up to on the couch at the end of the day. And that is one temperature adjusting tactic that neither of us ever seem to mind.

Easy as Pie?

2010-11-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

There is a feeling of comfort that takes over when attempting to follow the traditions and secrets of generations before...

There is also a feeling of relief that none of them are in the vicinity to witness the aftermath.

Mind battles and distant travels.

2010-10-29T06:48:00.000-07:00

You smell differently each time you return. Not of other women, but of other worlds.

I used to pretend you were my Odysseus of the open road. I told myself I was your Penelope and you were kept captive on a distant shore. It brought me a sense of purpose in the being left behind, that I was there to protect your home while you fought the gods to return. But this will be your 8th trip. Perhaps it is time to stop weaving this tapestry. I cannot bring myself to be angry, for it is your joy, and if it is yours than it is mine. But for so long I have been silent, and as the tears flow, so do my words.

You tried explaining it to me once over dishes. Your calloused hands dried each plate and you told me you could only compare it to the feeling of being chased, but by something good only what you did not know.

I know.
I know you need this. They say this is something every man needs. That it is the call. But can you hear mine?

You are good to me. You've shown me the maps. I've seen the coordinates and destinations and it's all wonderful. But I can never shake the feeling that you end up on a journey somewhere else. Somewhere beyond the logic of topography.

I read your journal before you left. Just a page. You stepped out to the garage and I came to bring you your tea. It lay there, open on the desk with it's oil stained pages. I feared confessions of a lost love. But instead there were only jotted names of towns, equations, and a quote in your scribbled penmanship "further up, further in". Further up and further in where I do not know. Only that it is where I am not. And there are no roads to get me there. Just as well I suppose. I have come to resent the Road as it is.

You hug her curves for months on end and mine are left untouched. Is this your gray eyed goddess? She is supposed to bring you back to me, not away! When she rises up to meet you in the morning does she shine more than these blue eyes? And are the tree lined paths that greet you with a thousand, welcoming limbs warmer than these two here? O that my words could take you places that she could not. Then I could go too, and we could be together-being chased by something good.

I wish you knew it was my heart at your heels. Because maybe then you'd fold up your shelter of nylon and sticks and make your destination our driveway...

You must forgive me. These accusations and lamentations are of no benefit to either one of us.These are the wave-tossed thoughts of a woman torn between jealousy and longing. I am sending them away with the wind, never to be uttered again. I beg you to forget these woes of mine and hear only this as you ride along the shore.

"We are waiting for you traveling man. Hurry home. For new adventure awaits you here. You are not Odysseus, and I am not Penelope, but there is a third character in our tale of love and leaving, and though I am terrified of one day being left times two, he needs to hear you whisper that the world is waiting. And I need you to hold my hand."

*********
Pulled together from:
biker brother and his supportive wife
Niel Peart
C.S. Lewis
drive home from MN
desire to explore all kinds of different stories and characters that have been left behind in one form or another

2010-04-29T22:04:00.000-07:00

You are more than a sudden overnight of color and song.

These petals are the ending notes of your soulful concerto. The beginning is a symphony of sorrow and struggle few rarely stop to hear.

Next year, with scarf and hat, I will listen to you sooner. I will walk by your gray and naked limbs, with buds shut tight, and resonate with your cries of longing.

To have so much to say and no immediate outlet to say it. For visions of richness, depth, and purpose, to be contained in such a small space and for so long... How is it done without imploding inward? Without burning up? Without giving out? And how is it that the chaos of color beneath winter's armor is only let loose in millimeters, late at night without witness.

You are a rare breed. The books tell of many who have carried this burden before, only with the loss of sanity, family, or morality.

Yet each year you harbor this same,unbearable tightness in your chest and are brought through. Miraculously unscathed, just as innocent, and even more breathtaking.

Oh that this miracle were true in this heart. To trust this paralyzed state is not without meaning. To know that a flower's turn to blossom does not mean that it is mine. And to rejoice in this late night for what it is- an unobserved millimeter.

photo by Georgia B @ http://itsjusthowiseethings.blogspot.com

2010-03-01T13:17:00.000-08:00

To say something new is by all means impossible. But to say something old in a new way...that is the stuff.

No ifs ands or...

2010-02-11T11:55:00.000-08:00

There are numerous traits about my mother that, were I granted skybox seats to my creation, I would have wholeheartedly picked out and thrown into my gene pool. However. It seems that quite the opposite has happened and my input was neither requested or even considered. So while the most wonderful woman on the planet I know, with an overwhelming amount of gifts and talents, gave birth to me, the thing I have most seemed to have inherited is a little something we have all come to know and love as the "The non-joke joke". This syndrome makes itself known in various forms at various times. It is commonly seen in already awkward or tense situations and almost always exacerbates spectators to the point of utter confusion. To spare using an example from my predecessor, I relay the following personal events:

A patient calls the dental office in extreme pain and I begin taking the necessary steps to procure an emergency exam for this caller. Looking at the schedule, I professionally and calmly explain what times we have available for the Dr. to alleviate their pain. The patient examines their own calendar and we both agree that a 2:30 appointment would work best for both parties involved. Within seconds, and before I am able to stop myself from what I know is a classic Andrea "non-joke joke"
I am already snickering under my breath "Two thirty...hmmm...how appropriate!" To which there is silence. To which I press on. "GET IT?"
To which the incoming patient replys "no."
To which I have to sheepishly explain. "Your tooth hurts...get it...tooth hurty...2:30."

Negative 20 points as empathetic receptionist.

Yet another example occurred this past weekend while sitting in the office at church with my betrothed. A previous co-worker of his walked in and began her congratulations on our recent engagement. I smiled and calmly accepted her well-wishes in a very elegant and demure manner. All was well until she smiled and exclaimed, "You have such a glow about you!" To which I responded with an over energetic, "NOT A PREGNANT GLOW THOUGH I HOPE-HAHAHAHAH.ha." The church receptionist stopped her typing. His former co-worker cocked her head. His eyes never looked so big.

Negative 50 points as the future "youth pastor's wife"

Take also for example, what we later dubbed the "occurrence" whilst milling with the aforementioned fiance, his new boss, and Covenant Harbor's camp director. We had just finished watching an evening devotion, when the director himself extended the generous invitation to spend further time on the grounds and attend more sessions. His boss wholeheartedly agreed with this idea and extended the same offer. Before my be-loved could humbly accept I was struck yet again, this time blurting out in the highest severity level of "non-joke jokes" syndrome "Oh, no thank you. It wasn't very good tonight."

Negative 75 points as graceful socialite.

Sigh.

I would like to think this is one of those things that gets better with age. But from what I have witnessed first hand from my "mentor" in this arena...the episodes will only increase in their severity with the coming years. The truth of it is, while at first glance I would probably choose her gifts of organization, domestic genius, and culinary flare over this exclamatory awkwardness...at the end of the day, I'm just glad to have any portion of my mom in me. "non-joke joke" telling and all.

Catching up.

2010-02-07T11:32:00.000-08:00

This past summer I had the opportunity to climb a hill...a 13,820 ft. hill to be exact. A hill that I would later discover was one of the highest known peaks in the state of Colorado. I signed up for this excursion because it was a Father/Daughter trip and also because it seemed like an adventurous idea at the time. At 2:00 in the morning however, after an already grueling climb to base camp, a meal in a bag, freezing temperatures, and no sleep, I began to second guess my decision making skills.

I remember each pain staking step as we climbed our way up and out of the forest early that morning, leaving the comfort of tents and sleeping bags behind. Once we were out of the clearing I kept my headlamp fixed on the rocky ground in front of me so as not to slip and fall in the darkness. We wanted to make the summit by sunrise but knew all too well the long hours ahead before daylight. As the first hour passed, fatigue settled in. It was windy and cold and every step looked exactly the same. I began to get discouraged.

It wasn't until we took our first water break that something changed and God taught me a lesson not just about mountains, but about our heaven bound journey in life. For the first time in the darkness, I looked up towards the summit and saw the headlights of those further on up the face, bobbing steadily and slowly towards the peak. Down below me was the same sight-a steady stream of travelers, only they were looking up at us us.

What encouragement there is in this! That in our Christian walk which so often can seem like a foot by foot crawl, that we have the wisdom and encouragement from those are much further on. While at the same time, there will always be others that have just met Christ and will be looking to us for that same guidance and hope. This is discipleship at its best and it is what makes the journey not just exciting, but climbable! Keep pressing on in your walk with Him and remember to look up, look out, and be encouraged that we are surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses!"

Devotion(s).

2009-07-28T06:57:00.000-07:00

Be my Sabbath.
Because everything I thought I wanted has left me empty and only wanting more.
Take me far from these speeding high ways,
rescue me from these crashing high waves.
Be my Sabbath.
Restore my soul.

Be my Sabbath.
For I find no peace and there is no shelter.
I am living in the shadows of dead lines and dollar signs,
and they daily demand more than I can give.
Be My Sabbath.
Comfort my Spirit.

Be my Sabbath.
For the path I run is long, and I cannot see the end.
When I sleep I do not rest.
My nights are full of fears and failures,
and always the eternal questions of eternity:
Is this all there is? Who will lead me home to rest?
Be My Sabbath.
Anchor my heart.

Lord Sabbaoth, You are my Sabbath.
Because your Words continually leave me at a loss for mine.
"Surely your goodness and mercy..."
Yes.
Surely, your greatest Love
meets me at my greatest need-
leaving my soul restored,
My spirit comforted,
And my heart anchored.

Boats.

2009-06-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

One of the memories of my Dad that I have come to cherish over the years
was of a winter, Wisconsin night spent reading Tennyson out loud on the living room floor. True to form, I was assigned Ulysses for that week's English project. And true to form, I had grumbled about it over family dinner (as a poem of such lofty prose intimidates me still to this day). And, true to form, my father volunteered with a knowing smile to "check it out together".

The first twenty minutes was spent in simple repetition. I started, rather begrudgingly and in much haste while laying sloppily on my back, pages dangling in mid air. Then it was his turn. He lay the spine carefully in his lap and smoothed each side of paper. "Ulysses" by "Alfred Lord Tennyson" he read. And started through it again. He read slowly and with great care over each phrase and word. By the end, I was sitting up next to him.

"But Dad, I still don't get it."

And so we began together from the beginning, asking only questions.

"What do you think this indicates? Why did he choose that word? Is he just talking about a voyage? Why that point of view? What could that metaphor be indicating?"

And slowly but surely, as if he had known all along the exact moment I would begin to see meaning, the answers started to arrive and I began to appreciate the piece for what it was-a masterpiece of reflection, capturing the spirit of a warrior, the importance of legacy, and the promise of a beyond.

I fell asleep that night having gleaned Truth from another world and my Dad had let me steer the boat that led us there.

That was a lesson I have not soon forgotten. Anytime I am met with something in life that I "just do not get", I remember the profound simplicity of sitting up, asking questions, and searching through the Words. The answers may not always come as quickly as I would like them to, but He always does answer, and meaning always does arrive.

And so it was that my Dad (with a little help from Ulysses) taught me what it means:

"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Dad, "That which we are, we are",
and I owe so much of that to you.

Thanks.
I love you.

Jessi

More than correspondence.

2009-04-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

It is noon.
There isn't much time.
But being here is important.
So no one pushes.
And no one yells.
Each waits their turn.

The air is filled with reverant whispers and the
echo of footsteps off marble flooring.

Is this the same group of people I see rushing by me at the super market?
Is that the same woman who was screaming from her car at a pedestrian?
Is that the same hot shot lawyer on TV, with his head bowed and his pride bridled?

Someone coughs. A mother hushes her baby.
A cell phone ring is quickly silenced.

A man leaves without his burdens,
just as two woman walk in with theirs
and seamlessly join the growing crowd
and our methodical liturgy.

We are not the first to partake in this ritual
and we won't be the last.
The art of balancing brown paper packages,
left arm, to the right, then to the left again.
Of the last minute licking of stamps,
the clicking of pens
the checking of clocks,
the tapping of fingers on ivory envelopes.

Bread doesn't turn to body,
and wine doesn't turn to blood.
But something is happening
as sunlight streams through cathedral windows.

Side by side, as we stand,
we become more than members of a community.
We become a congregation-
clinging fast to the written word,
dwelling on the ones we love,
and the ones that love us back.

I walk down the aisle,
with my offering in hand,
and lay it humbly down.
And in the letting go I realize,
that we are coming to this alter
with more that just our postage.

We are coming with our prayers.

The Struggle.

2009-04-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

This is too big. Why did I ever think I could catch this?
A sunset, an entire sky…heaven itself…all with some horsehair and oil. And it’s setting, it’s all going so fast. I don’t have time, someone please press pause. I don’t have that shade of gold, the one in the lower left corner, where that portion of sky meets that portion of water and it’s dancing and it’s changing now, just in this moment, and there it changed again. I have a kaleidoscope of colors, but none for the most important part and I need this to be it.
I need this to be it, to remember why I fell in love with art in the first place, I need it to forget the Professors and their methods and the daily critiques, to forget any tear stained piece I’ve thrown away, to erase all the student loans, my parent’s disapproval, his screams to get my “shit” off the table… If I can get this, if I can just even come close, then things will change. I just know they will. So you see, whoever you are, I am sitting here silently, with a storm inside, pleading with you, for just this one break, to be let in on this one secret, please just let me find that shade of gold, please just let me catch this evening’s beauty, and please let me take it back and show the others…because somehow I think that things would be different…if not for them, then at least for me. Because I'll put all this splendor above my bed and escape each night in my dreams…

This is too deep. How do I plan to go about catching this? An entire being, an entire entity, an entire universe…all with a box and some film? And with so little time left…the sun is setting, it’s going fast. There, that look her face, I just missed it, someone please press pause. The light is dancing and it’s changing as reach for my bag. I’ve just asked her if I can take her photo. She said yes and smiled…or did she? The ocean isn’t behind me. It’s in that subtle smile…She is exquisite in her peaceful poise. Does she realize the favor that she has done for me, to have this chance? Because I need this to be it.
I need this to be it to remember that it’s more than just this. I need it to forget my desk job, the taxes, the fluorescent lights, super markets and stock markets. I need to be believe that time can be stilled, if only for a moment and that while everything keeps spinning at million miles a minute and aging and death and loss are inevitable, that perhaps I have some say in the matter. And I need this to be it because it’s another piece to the puzzle, the one I spend hours in darkrooms trying to figure out.
So you see whoever you are, I am not just talking with you, I am standing here hopeful, with a goal in mind, pleading for you for this one glimpse, to be let in on this one secret. Please just let me catch that look and that light and let me take it back and show the others. Because somehow I think they would look at her and see themselves and maybe understand…and if they don’t, then at least I will, and I’ll hang this Mona Lisa moment above the mantle and come to her whenever I need help with the mystery.

This is too intricate and the cycle is too complex. In what way did I think I could ever go about catching this? A theory, a concept, the creative spirit…and all with paper planes and pencils. I’ve never known this before, never seen it this clearly, never quite seen the story laid out in quite this way. The subject of a subject of a subject, the circular pattern of it all, all so unaware that while we are watching, we are also being watched, and while we are creating, something else is being created. But the sun is setting and it’s going fast. And I don’t have the right word yet, and the answers to my questions might not stick around long enough for me to find the sentences and stick them to the page, somebody please press pause. The stories are dancing but they are already changing as I reach for my pen. And I am praying as I scribble, because I need this to be it. I need this to be it to remember that it’s worth the mental torment and minimum wage jobs. I need it to forget the wastebaskets filled with rough drafts, forget the insecurities, bitten nails, and endless pots of coffee. I need it to know that the days ahead will be worth it, and that this path has promise.
So you see, I am sitting here crying to you with a task unknown, begging to have my eyes opened just a bit more, to be let in on this one secret. Please just let me catch this word and this Truth and let me take it back and tell the others. Because somehow I think the heart of an artist would recognize these events, these pleas, this desire, and know that it is their story too, that it’s always been theirs, and that maybe they will be as encouraged in their craft as I have been, to try and tell it.

photograph by sir james.

Woah Boy.

2009-04-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

Lately I am finding that multiple rounds of caffeinated beverages are not particularly aiding my productivity and/or sanity levels. In fact, the past week or so this Arabica Bean nectar of the gods, seems to only be exacerbating certain"tendencies" that (I would like to think) are otherwise much more...dormant.

In a perfect world, so much ridiculousness could have been avoided if a simple surgeon general's warning was placed on the sleeves of each cup. Something to the extent of:

ATTENTION: NOT ONLY IS BEVERAGE EXTREMELY HOT, BUT COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF THIS LIQUID COULD RESULT IN COPIOUS HOURS OF INSOMNIA WHICH COULD RESULT IN COPIOUS VARIETIES OF UNWANTED SIDE EFFECTS".

I have taken the liberty of listing a few of my own unwanted side effects, in the humble hopes that if my story of addiction can reach one person and stop them from making the same mistakes that I did, then it will have made all of this worthwhile...

Side Effect #1: Fits of anger and extreme rage.

Typically I consider myself a peace loving person...and while I find that there are many scenarios that I would like to give someone a piece of my mind, I will most often hold my tongue and turn my thoughts towards happy things, such as kittens and daffodils. However, today's train ride home, while under the influence of much coffee and little sleep, something happened and it wasn't pretty.

Mid-commute while enjoying the peace and quiet of a sun-filled car and a good book, a girl my age barged through the doors, dragged her 3 duffel bags through the aisle to the seat behind me, and proceeded to blast the speakers off of her cell phone, while simultaneously singing along with Fergy and the other Black Eyed Peas about humps and lady lumps.

A full two minutes went by, and as I watched my knuckles turn white with anger, I realized that clearly my pacifist ways had left the station...because by then I had already reached for my own cell phone. The one that came programmed with quite a variety of equally obnoxious hip hop songs. I cranked the volume up as far as I knew it would go and hit the play button, then held it above my head and scratched my ear. Passive aggressive behavior at it's best. But this time it apparently worked. DJ mix allot behind me got the picture and opted for her head phones.

Side Effect #2: Temporary Amnesia and/or mild retardation.

This morning I shaved my legs. Both of them. With a new razor.
Took a good 5 minutes.
Felt pretty proud of myself since winter doesn't usually promote this kind of shower habit.
It wasn't until I grabbed my towel however,
and put down the neon purple Lady Schick,
that I realized the safety cap was still on.
Had been on.
The entire shave.
And that the only thing
going down the
drain that morning
was my IQ level.

Side Effect #3: Hallucinations and conversations with non-humans.

Dr. Doolittle has nothing on me. While he may have known the secret longings of giant sea snails and baby rabbits, I not only talk to members of the animal kingdom such as my cats, but apparently this week, all other kinds of inanimate objects as well, such as plants, refrigerator foods, shoes, and park benches.
See recorded dialogues below:

Cat talk:
Fitz, what do you think? Should the Olympics come to Chicago? We won't be here then you know that right? No. We won't. How's that new cat nip working out for ya?

Plant talk:
HULLLOOO little thirsty plant. You are thirsty huh? That is why you make that noise when I water you. That little glug glug glug...that is quite cute...

Food talk:
Left-over lasagna, you are MINE....again.

Shoe talk:
You little purple b*(&WE$@. How dare you not fit me. There are going to be extreme consequences for your actions. Just you wait and see.

Park Bench talk:
Don't mind if I do...

So...the point.
The point is, while all this time I have been convincing myself that a mug of java for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is the exact ticket for maintaining clarity and promoting energy for getting things done during this current schedule from hell...it seems I have fallen in the throes of many other mindless consumers and am now suffering extreme buyers remorse. Simply put: The girl's been duped. And from now on I am going to start seeing a "cup a Joe" for what it truly is:

"a cup a crazy"...

This is not always fun.

2009-03-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

Some days the words are right there,
floating in front of my desk
illuminated by sunlight
dancing between the dust...

Then all I have to do is open my palm
and let one or two of them fall,
and the rest follow,
wanting simply to continue their waltz on my page.

But most days,
they are impossible to find.
There is no sun and there is no dancing,
just allot of sweat and tears and
yelling.

And when I drag one out from under my bed,
or steal one from the woman at the bus stop,
they don't typically sit still very long.
So we fight clumsily, late into the night,
until we both quit out of sheer exhaustion.

Is this the writer's life?
95% of one's days spent wrestling
with the air? With things that don't
yet exist? A tiring hunt for the
perfect way, the perfect phrase, the perfect
story...

If so, I suppose it all seems like the perfect formula for insanity...

But then there are the "some days"
the other 5%,
when words come tripping in so sweetly
through an open window,
allowing glimpses of secrets and distant lands
and deeper thoughts,
that make the madness worth it,
at least for a moment-
A moment long enough to make you forget the week's pains,
and renew your monthly contract.

Surprises.

2009-03-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

I can think of very few surprises in my life
that surpass the one of finding you.

Finding you was better than finding money in the pocket of an old winter coat

better than hidden tracks on a favorite album

better than handwritten letters amongst the bills

better than a secret garden in dark green woods

better than a great pair of heels...on clearance

better than underwater caves and electric blue starfish

better than hole in the wall coffee shops with free refills and free wireless

better than old love letters between the pages of older books

better than the band doing one more tour

better than post it notes on bathroom mirrors

better than waiting arms after a long day

better than it being just the right size

better than grade school diaries

better than the same sense of humor

better than more room in the waistline

better than the perfect driving road

better than a friendly neighbor

even better than finding the hidden stash of chocolate chips...

In fact,
Perhaps the only other surprise
better than finding you,
is the one in which
I was found by you.

On Friendship

2009-03-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

There is nothing quite as lovely
as the exquisite understanding
of a dear friend.

For such knowing eyes,
that see the world and all its splendor....

For such adept ears,
able to recognize vast genres of rhythm and rhyme...

For such skilled hands,
capable of turning the ordinary into extraordinary...

For all these gifts
to so graciously turn towards sisterhood,
and simply offer:

"I see you.
I hear you.
I'll take your hand and walk with you".

...this is artistry at its best...

Point of Views.

2009-03-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

So we are not much different then, you and I.
You sleeping in laundry baskets on kitchen tables,
and I dozing in sun spots on passenger trains.

I recognize this now,
because I recognize that knowing gaze.
The one mixed with the groggy pride that comes from
good rest, good dreams, and good love?
The last of which of course you rarely admit,
(only just before dinner and perhaps in the early hours of the dawn).

Yes. My eyes have seen the world through those same narrow shutters,
have known the same good things,
and have perhaps too often maintained the same silence...

We are secret holders,we two.
Watching the world from countertops and rooftops,
always thinking,
and sometimes sleeping,

but never quite resting...

Ladies...

2009-03-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

We’ve all encountered them before, whether in that local Seven Eleven “closet” they have labeled a toilet facility, or even at times within the walls of our favorite department store. You step up to the sink to wash your hands and fix your make up when all of the sudden: BAM. There it is. The face and the figure that you so appropriately deemed that morning as acceptable…(and yes, perhaps even somewhat enjoyable for the rest of the world to view), have been brought up close and personal to a particular kind of mirror under a particular kind of light, that ends up sending your confidence levels crashing to schizophrenic new lows.

Take for example this dis-heartening, reflection conversation with myself in a local Subway.

"Ms. Jensen. Dry your hands and look up here please. Yes. There you are. Well Well Well. It appears you are a growing a national forest over your upper lip. In fact, we have taken the liberty of re-assigning you a new gender and namesake: Senor Hose is much more fitting.
Also. You were very wrong. That sweater is not your color. In fact we highly doubt that “death vomit” is anyone’s color.
Lastly, you could very well be the first human marsupial. It seems there is a pouch on your gut that could carry around a baby walrus."

Seriously!?? Apparently when the abstinence mirror hits, it hits hard. Who INSTALLS these things?? And why do they always seem to appear right before a hot date, an important interview, or a large public speaking event???

Now what exacerbates the situation with the abstinence mirror, and what I feel is the sole reason for confusion when it comes to a healthy view of self image, is that JUST when one is convinced by a Dunkin Donuts pit stop, that they are the ugliest of all ugly ducklings, one will automatically find herself just days later in front of a strategically placed, “kiss me now” mirror. A new kind of reflection that not only removes doubt and self-loathing, but quite frankly seems to perpetuate the viewer into completely false ideas of uber-hotness.

“Kiss me NOW” mirrors are most often found in places like The Cheesecake Factory or some obscure little bistro off of Damen and Clark. We walk in to re-apply some Lip-smackers Strawberry Blast, and suddenly find ourselves captivated by the woman on the other side. She smiles playfully back at us under dim wattage and convinces us that we are wearing a size 2, when in fact we know darn well we are a 12...

Here is a second dialogue with my psyche, one that took place just a week after aforementioned visage of horror.

"Why hello there Jessica darling.
Were you aware that you are in fact a walking goddess?
Your dinner will be free. You can eat dessert and you won’t gain a pound.
Quit your job. Now. Go into modeling. Tyra will love you. Oprah will interview you.
The stars are in alignment because of your beauty.
This evening waits on your every breath, you gorgeous gazelle you.

Woah. I'm all for self-confidence, but there are definitely limits...
limits that this particular mirror seems to overrun completely.

Conundrum then: With such polarized views of our appearance at every turn, how are we ever to gain a sane and healthy perspective of what we actually LOOK like??? Are we to go about our jobs, social engagements, and daily errands eternally doomed to the ever-changing perspectives that these patronizing mirrors seem to throw haphazardly our way???? Or perhaps we should just give up looking in mirrors altogether and always rely on the honesty of a good friend...

Heck if I know.
But what I DO know,
is that I always carry around an extra sweater,
and a paper bag,
just. in. case.

Rebuttals of a mild nature.

2009-03-08T20:45:00.000-07:00

Your honor,
The accused has heard it stated,
by several well-intending experts on the matter,
that once a young artist finds herself void of cynicism and disdain
regarding matters of the heart,
that she may as well pack up her pens and call it a day.

Such claims hold much validity (as there are countless aisles
of romanticized drivel to uphold such an accusation).

However, I stand humbly before the jury and offer up this necessary distinction regarding my client and the charges brought against her:

That while a lack of quality is most certainly indicative of blind emotion,
a lack of quantity speaks of quite a different matter.

She hasn't given up. Her silence is simply the product of a poet quietly observing a new surrounding...one in particular that she has never quite had the pleasure of exploring...

Neither has she forgotten the words. Rather her absence is the outcome of hours spent carefully retraining each one. Teaching them to translate all that is before her, under the soft and glowing tones of respect and adoration.

She does not beg for your just pardon.
She simply asks for your gracious time,
and assures you that all will be as it was,
once she has settled in,
and filled her pockets,
with all things shining.

Your Honor,
If it pleases the court...

;)

Unconscious Prayer

2009-03-01T21:26:00.000-08:00

"The soul accustomed to directing herself to God on every occasion, like a flower at the sunrise, spreads and dilates toward him in thankfulness for every small blessing he sheds on her. This soul, like a flower at sunset, gathers into herself as though she had received a blow when she hears her Savior maligned in blasphemy. This soul, whatever chord is struck in her, is always tuned toward God...

and this soul prays sometimes when she does not realize she prays."

John Donne

More Polish Witticisdom.

2009-02-08T17:41:00.000-08:00

"Cookie. We may be in the same boat, but you are definitely on the upper deck."

"This is what I done say to you hundreds of the time. A guy should be like those highlighters, make you bright yellow and important. Not the white out that blots you up."

"You have the dunkey laugh you know that right? Oh boy oh boy, you sound riDONKEYlous."

"Never throw away da bread. Promise me, cookie. This is mortal sin. You could DIE for this."

"If you drink the coffee one more of the time with the spoon in your cup I am not be the one taking you to eye doctor."

"You look like poppet today, round face. Who has hand up your shirt?"

"Get that restaurant water away from me. Why do you think I am, a FISH? Coffee of course."

"I was going to buy for you cheap bra this weekend at the TJ Maxx. But they did not have size parachute."

-Beata Komenda

What'd you Say? I can't hear you over me.

2009-01-25T06:46:00.000-08:00

Touch free until I know,
What's in it for me?

Oh yes. Haven't you heard?

I'm worth it.

And I'm lov'in it.

Because there are a thousand possibilities for me to
get mine,
and it's just like they say,
I can have it my way.

A better world for you?
Change that.
How about a better world for "i".

i-phone
i-tunes
i-pod
i-pass
i-go...

i stop.

Didn't you hear?
Or couldn't you guess?

I put the me in awesome.

So cheers to yours truly,
and for all that I do,
patting myself on the back,
shouting, "this buds for you!"

(Written over course of train travels,
majority of text stemming from
following slogans throughout the city,
as well as a growing awareness of my own self-absorbed tendencies.)

Mobile Gas
Chicago Tribune
Loreal
McDonald's
Best Buy
Burger King
T-mobile
Apple Store
I-go rent-a-service
Budweiser.

Lessons

2009-01-21T07:33:00.000-08:00

I have never really been able to categorize myself under the illustrious adjective awarded to all those with muscles and a competitive drive to WIN things. More simply put, the sentence: "Hey, she is quite the athlete", has never and will never be uttered about me. This information could quite easily be deduced by observing the amount of chocolate that is stashed away in my pantry or my increasing library of books on things like chess, theology, cats, and gardening.

This may be hard to believe, BUT there was, for a short time in my high school career, a window of hope for this now world-renowned-Olympian-NERD. Oh yes. For a brief yet balmy summer, I was absolutely convinced (as is evident in my diary entries) that I would be the next Lindsay Davenport.

Example:
"Dear Diary,
Today I hit a tennis ball with my racket against the garage door for like...2 hours. It was so intense. I really think I could have a future in this...gotta go!
Love, Jessi P.S. This autograph will be famous next year!"

Now of course even at my young age I knew that all this raw talent would somehow need to be bridled. SO, my parents, in all their "we will support you with anything you want to do as long as it is not dumb" glory, signed me up for...dun dun dun DAH: "TENNIS LESSONS".

Talk about adding the fuel to my fast growing fire of illusions. By the time my first lesson had arrived I had already written and memorized my acceptance speech for gold medal tennis victory.

What I had not prepared for however, that bright and sunny Wednesday afternoon, was that just when I thought life could not get any better, just when I was already intoxicated by the new rubber smell of my neon green racket and the promise of Tennis Hall History fame, the instructor stepped onto the court.

Time stood still. Birds sang. My heart stopped beating. I whispered to myself the new score of my life: LOVE:LOVE... The fact that my emotions were most likely not returned at that moment didn't bother me. He was so good looking and so obviously talented, and so knowledgeable about the sport (as was evident by his K-Swiss sneaks), that all the signs in the universe seemed to resonate the same pun-intended slogan: THIS IS A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN!

In those brief moments of course introductions, my life goal took the edit of a lifetime the revised version being: "get Todd the tennis instructor to confess his undying love ...while simultaneously declaring me the best female tennis player the world has ever seen."

To say I had high ambitions for that summer would be an understatement..
But fortunately the "inspirational" catch phrase, "Shoot for the moon and you'll always land in the stars" had recently been born, so I remained completely unaware and undeterred.

Wednesday evenings could never come quickly enough. My parents would pull up to the courts in our grey mini-van and before you could say, “Pete Sampras really needs a good eyebrow wax", I had already bolted gazelle like, out the sliding door, racket in hand, ready to gaze longingly across the net at my future husband.

I enjoyed the underhand racket hitting segments, and reveled in the tapping volley segments, but by far, the serving segment was the most divine. I don't remember much talk on form and follow through...but what I do know is that that was the time each night when he would come stand by each student, without any tennis ball, and have them practice fake serving simultaneously with him.

Even better than being in such close proximity with the man of my dreams, was the whiff of deodorant that came after each fake serve. It was his wonderful, Old Spice smelling deodorant, that enabled daydreams like these:

"Oh honey, after your match today, could you stop by the grocery store and pick up some deodorant?" to which I'd laugh and respond "Of course Toddy, I'd love to, oh and don't forget, the Williams are coming buy for a match after dinner tonight.”

This was my utopia. For 4 weeks straight I practiced taps and fake serves for the game I loved all with the man I loved- unaware that very soon, true to Dante form, this Paradise would be lost indefinitely.

That fifth Wednesday, after a usual hurried drop off, I walked through the fence gates and knew immediately that something was wrong. The evening sunlight was not as golden. The cicadas were screaming, not singing, and Todd, tennis god Todd, was nowhere to be seen. One of the students whispered something about an accident and torn ligaments. All at once, things became a blur. My mind began to reel. What about our future? Our three, tennis-sweater donning children? Panic set it. The students began to complain, asking trivial questions like who was teaching in his place?.. That is when SHE showed up, towing our impending doom behind her.

I immediately called her Miss Hannigan. In my opinion she didn't have a real name, since she wasn't Todd. She stood on the other side of the court in a white, Nike, tennis skirt and arm muscles that rippled as she crossed them and barked:

"I play professionally. I cannot serve or volley wif you at dis time. So dar is dis machine. Everyvone, step back to ze line. NOW."

Oh Good Lord.
My heaven turned hell in a matter of minutes.
“Dis machine" was the tennis pro 3000 and it had no mercy for tennis amateurs and certainly not for broken hearts or dreams.

Never in my young adult career have I played a GAME with such fear for my life.
Just when you had managed to follow through on a corner hit, it's angry unrelenting serve was chucking yet another death ball of speed, and if you missed that one, there was no time to belittle yourself because 2 inches away from your face was another neon orb of torture.

Always,
every practice,
they,
just,
kept ,
coming,
and ,
coming ,
and coming.

And always with every practice
was Miss Hannigan,
yelling,
and yelling,
and yelling.

So many welts.
So many diary entries: "I HATE HER! I HATE MISS HANNIGAN! AND I HATE TENNIS!

It is no surprise to the reader then, how the last class of that summer, seemed to me to be the end of my sentence on death row, and was an evening met with much anticipation.

But then the strangest thing happened that took us all by surprise...
That night, Miss Hannigan didn't bring her machine.
That night she had us all line up on the side of the fence and called us to the court one by one.

And one by one, we each played a set with her. And one by one, as her intimidating professional serves would come thundering across the court...we would actually hit some back. And one by one we were actually able to keep up with her rocketing backhands.

By the time it was my turn and I stepped up to the box, I began to play and enjoy the game on a level that I had not ever arrived at in the underhanded ease of love-lorn days prior, (or in any of my "intense" garage door hitting sessions for that matter).

Un-beknownst to me at the time, the unforgiving, loathsome ways of Miss Hannigan and her teaching style, had prepared me for a much, much bigger game...

Now I still to this day, have yet to dominate a match. It is true. As was stated earlier I am extremely un-athletic and my tennis career is still struggling. But when it comes to bigger games…
When it comes to THE bigger game with it's stress and anxiety that always seems to come in waves of with no mercy,I have learned to take the welts, ride it out, and remember these three things:

1. Only when we remain steadfast with the hits that keep coming, will you find God gives you the strength to keep going.

2. If you always get things thrown to where your hitting, you'll never hit far.
It's in the reaching that you'll really travel.

And lastly,
And perhaps most importantly:

3. Todd is probably bald and fat somewhere on a tennis court, still teaching kids to fake serve.

2009-01-11T12:21:00.000-08:00

Beloved,

Though the path is dark,
I will not let you fall.

Though the night is cold,
I will keep your thoughts from sleep.

Though you walk this journey alone,
I will never leave your side.

Child of the King,
Don't forget:
Your tears may be many,
but My promises for you are more.

Practicing Dialogue vs. Diatribe

2009-01-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

That's just the problem.
I'm guessing she can't decide whether you are awfully perfect for each other...
or just perfectly awful.

But I told her that I loved her!

Well what does that have to do with anything?

Allot I should hope.

Words mean nothing to her.

You're wrong. She's an author. Words mean everything to her.

Not those ones.
They are as easy to say as "I hate you".
and who knows.
maybe a year from now things change and...

I could never hate her! I want to marry her!
I would do anything for her!

I see. And you told her this already?
It may as well be over.

Why? Because I say marriage and say it so soon?

No. Because you say "anything" and actually believe yourself.

She isn't as cynical as you are.

Leave it to a "poet in love" to mistake wisdom for cynicism.

I come to you, asking for your help,
your guidance in winning her hand,
and all you do is scoff at my love for her.

It is not Love I laugh at.
It is your love for Love,
and what it does for you,
that is difficult to tolerate.

I just told you I would do anything for her!
And you accuse me of selfishness!

The language of love is the most intoxicating drug of all.
The more it is spoken, the higher it takes you...
But if she did as you wished, if she married you today,
and if you lived off the feelings of grandeur that you carry for her
at this very hour, I can assure you, the glow would dull and fade
and no amount of meaningless incantations or phrases could ever bring it back.

I have a different theory.
I think you are the selfish one.
You know how much you influence her.
And yet you block your own sister's happiness!
Very well then, O wise one. What would you advise.

To admit to yourself and to her that you know nothing of Love.
Absolutely nothing at all.
But that it would be your greatest honor,
to commit yourself daily,
to discovering this knowledge,
together.
Only then would you have chance in this whole mess.
Only then.
That, and a good shave wouldn't hurt your case either.

The year of the Emu.

2009-01-01T19:38:00.000-08:00

Tonight I had a conversation with my new bottle of certified fair trade soap and it went a little something like this:

MMM. soap, you are good, i am glad i bought you, you smell like peppermint and are made with organic oils. also, congratulations on what looks to be your 60th year of "soapmaking excellence"

Truthfully, I didn't buy you because you were fair trade, although that is nice bonus...,but because 1. i would very much like to smell like a candy cane all day,and 2. your label said "Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps". And quite frankly,i think that there is nothing better than medical confidence mixed with a bit of magical charm. i hope you find yourself at home here.

ok. now i am going to try you out....nice... i am even tempted to put you in hot chocolate.

but wait. what's this? you have alot of small print over your packaging. interesting. well i have already read your neighboring shampoo ingredients and the labels that come on my shaving gel, so i am very much indebted to whatever new jingle you have to tell me.

i have always thought there is no greater boredom than the boredom that comes from having nothing new to read, so i will check you out through sudsy squints while my leave in conditioner sets.

WHATEVER UNITES MANKIND IS BETTER THAN WHATEVER DIVIDES US.

hm.that's different...i was expecting "start your stint with hint of peppermint" or something more up the soap slogan rhyming alley...

YET IF ABSOLUTE UNSELFISH I AM NOT FOR ME, I AM BUT CLASSLESS, RACELESS, STARVING MASSES, NEVER FREE NOR BRAVE! ONLY IF CONSTRUCTIVE SELFISH I WORK HARD PERFECT FIRST ME, LIKE ARCTIC OWLS-PENGUIN, PILOT-CAT-SWALLOW-BEAVER-BEE, CAN I TEACH THE MORAL ABC'S...

the moral abc's...? hold on. i'm going to need to sit down for this one.
my two minute rinse can wait.

ALL-ONE- GOD-FAITH, THAT LIGHTNING LIKE UNITES THE HUMAN RACE!

errr....

FOR WE'RE ALL ONE OR NONE! ALL ONE!"LISTEN CHILDREN, ETERNAL FATHER ETERNALLY ONE
EXCEPTION ETERNALLY? ABSOLUTE NONE!

hold UP. let me get this straight. i purchased you, a mere hygiene product and ended up buying a philosophy?

DON"T DESTROY GOD"S SPACESHIP EARTH!

Roger that, Houston.
We have a problem.

Peppermint soap: something stinks, and i think it's your
evolutionary
individualistic ideas
of universal happiness
achieved purely through self-sufficient means,
in which we all become our own diety
and live happily ever after
as beaver llama bee god's.

SMALL MINDS DECAY! AVERAGE MINDS DELAY! GREAT MINDS TEACH ALL-ONE TODAY!

stop yelling at me.

EACH DAY, LIKE A BIRD, PERFECT THYSELF FIRST!

well i am one bird not going for this worm.
i'll be honest, your sweet oils were quite seductive...
but next time, i think i'll stick with Irish Spring.

because it's cheaper.
but mostly because the only philosophy they ever tried to sell me
was that it floats.
so PEACE.
This "small minded" woman is out.

Definition of Hope

2008-12-16T20:07:00.000-08:00

to the woman on the street-
smoking the dying embers of a cigarette
looking for the smallest trace of warmth...

Immanuel

to the downtown shoppers, with designer names and dreams, carrying all the anxiety of deadlines, of schedules,and of coming up short..

Immanuel

to the husband, looking into blue eyes of a best friend who doesn't remember.
Doesn't remember the date, doesn't remember watercolor paints,and doesn't remember the names of their children...

Immanuel

to the broken families, staring at where they would sit if they ever chose to come- meals divided over broken trust and broken hearts...

Immanuel

to the older brother and his sleeping sister,her white hands on white sheets, exhausted with the fight...

Immanuel

to the children singing with their bells, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, not knowing of the corrupt times in which they ring...

Immanuel

to the foreigner, miles away from his family, and worlds away from knowing his true Home...

Immanuel

to the doctor, silently bearing the grief and stoically bridging the void for three years since his passing, fighting back tears as she lays out the gifts alone...

Immanuel

to the soldier over seas, making the honorable commitment of a man while still being very much a boy...

Immanuel

to his mother and the loss of which she does not yet know.

Immanuel

to the career woman, alone on her catalog living room floor, with her catalog wine glass, and her catalog sweater, weeping over the things she cannot buy...

Immanuel

to the Honduran people. to the fatherless families crowding into their one room homes for one meal, wishing for one thing...

Immanuel

to all the weary travelers.
to all the broken vessels.
to all the empty hearts.

Immanuel.

GOD WITH US.

THEREFORE

the darkness does not win,
nor does it understand,
how in the midst of so much sadness
true Light has entered in.

*photograph by Beth Hedy Adams

"Confrontations" with her Creator

2008-12-16T19:20:00.000-08:00

__________,

being knocked over is not the same as being knocked down
nor bruised the same as beaten

just as

living well is not the same as living for
nor right the same as righteous

inches away decide the difference
between
struggle or defeat
between
comfort or integrity
between
law or Love

inches away

so decide the difference.

Phantoms/AKA Hearts. On. Sleeves.

2008-12-12T20:53:00.000-08:00

I did not ask for this.
To be honest, I really thought we were done here
- thought that time had done her job,
had mended the cut and healed the absence-
the strangeness of a day without you,
days I replaced so quickly with
prosthetic limbs of strength.

This kind of pain I have only heard about from veterans.
And to be honest,
I really did not take them seriously-
thought that I'd never wake up in tears,
thought the dull aches would never reach me,
thought the intermittent tendancies of dillusion would pass me by.

Which is why I am a bit beside myself with all of this.
With how to ease a hurt that does not exist.

And of course I hear myself asking "just how bad was it, Jessica?"
To which any intelligent physician would reply, "very bad".
"Why Here, just look at the case".

Fortunately, I am old enough to know
that the eyes of past are not to be trusted,
as they so often choose to see an early morning run at sunrise
before the sickness,
and nothing else besides.

Memory is so very vain this way.

She'll show you repeats of your highest moments,
but never the reasons for the end.
never the sweat and tears and guts
of a five year marathon to nowhere.

I know I know I KNOW this.
Which is why
I just do not understand,
how after all this time,
after this removal and replacement,
after the strong foundations that have been placed in your stead,
that at any given time,
without my permission
I will see your eyes smiling at me from our kitchen counter,
as you make a turkey sandwhich.
"for your sister" You say.
"to put in her purse" You say.
"Because I hear brides don't get to eat much." You say.

They say there is not much to be done about this kind of thing.
That it's normal and typical and to be expected for 50-80%
of these kinds of cases, and that someday your mind really will adapt
to your body.

And I know they are right.
And I know things are as they should be.

But in the meantime,
in the throws of it all
statistics bring no relief.
And that is what I say.

a few thoughts on books...

2008-12-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

There is a quiet place of rest within your words
I am not sure when it got this way,
or how long it will last,
but please accept this unspoken note of thanks from a weary traveler.

*

I would be overwhelmed by all the places I have never traveled,
were it not for the vast amount books, waiting to take me there.

*

A good book is to the imagination
what a great pair of heels is to a woman's self esteem.

*

There are afternoons where I truly do believe that your strong ropes of words have saved me.
And I marvel at the power that comes from links of letters.

*

bOOk.
i never notice before...
but eternity lies in your middle...

*

You can tell a good book like you can tell a good friend.
If they are:
great to travel with
up for tea at any hour,
and searching for Truth.
Always Truth.

*

Instead of plastic surgery,
women in Hollywood should just get their nose in a book.

*

Novels are meant to be absorbed. Not just read.
The only way to do this is to follow closely, with pen and hand,
and when the author says something particularly striking to you,
talk back.

Hair today Gone Tomm.

2008-12-08T20:34:00.000-08:00

Boredom at work + poetry story idea in talking with a friend
+ actual knot in hair =...an apology. for the following.

There is a knot in my hair
like the one in my shoe
that is constantly growing
what to do what to do?

It started out small
the humble size of a dime.
but at midmorning tea
had quartered in no time.

Ginny said "ignore it"
she said I would manage
but a week has gone by
and now it's causing some damage.

Vases and windows are merely a token
of the keepsakes, the namesakes,
the valuables I've broken.

(Not to mention my studies, mummy says.
And she is right).

I hit Monday's piano teacher smack in the eye
I reached for C sharp and she started to cry

Tuesday's Italian and I can say for sure,
that IT was the reason Professore hit the floor.

Wednesdays are swimming in our heated indoor pool.
But my rubber cap did not fit and I felt like a fool.

By thursday's polo match the thing was gigantic
It kept knocking down teammates and the crowds grew quite frantic.

This morning is Friday.
I should be well out of bed.
But the horror the travesty,
I can't lift my head!!

I've called all the nurses,
all the maids and the cooks,
called all the bakers, the policeman
to "come take a look!!"

"Please help me please help me please help me please do.
now My THOUGHTS are all tangled,
I am counting on you!"

I presented the problem to the council of many
but solutions were scarce.
None gave me any.

Except.

Except for a little girl from the wood,
who sat on my stomach and told me of good.
news that is.

"dear child dear child".
She said with a smile,
all will be well
just close your eyes and rest here awhile.

So I did as she ordered
I did as she told...
but when i opened my eyelids
i saw scissors of gold!

The woodland girl
a once calm and peaceful fairy
was now a large Ogre
quite large and quite scary.

With a menacing glare
he lunged full speed ahead
I screamed and I panicked
and thought myself dead.

But low and behold
the seconds they flew
I glanced down at my feet
and that's when I knew...

The knot that had grown
that had towered and terrored
could do no more harm
meeting due punishment for it's errors.

Now I am thankful and happy and weightless it's true.
But next time...
I am brushing.
to try something new.

the business of being tagged...

2008-12-03T13:58:00.000-08:00

G and Rochelle,
here you go.
thank you for thinking of me :)
I very much liked reading your own answers to these :).

One Word Answer Challenge

Where is your mobile phone? MIA
Where is your significant other? ...MIA
Your hair colour? brondish.
Your mother? Kind.
Your father? Wise.
Your favourite thing? conversations.
Your dream last night? FLYING!
Your dream goal? lots.
The room you're in? bed.
Your hobby? wrrriitttinnnggg.
Your fear? needles.
Where do you want to be in 6 years? warm.
Where were you last night? Narnia.
What you're not? disciplined.
One of your wish-list items? secret :)
Where you grew up? WB
The last thing you did? letter.
What are you wearing? green!
Your TV? nope.
Your pets? Fitz.
Your computer? appley.
Your mood? CHRISTMAS
Missing someone? G
Your car? nope.
Something you're not wearing? diamonds.
Favourite shop? Amvets.
Your summer? shining.
Love someone? always.
Your favourite colour? grreeeeennn.
When is the last time you laughed? today
When is the last time you cried? yesterday.

6 Quirky Things

1. i can never seem to find matching socks. ever.
2. i try to match people up in my mind on the train, who fits with who...
3. i own about 25 different chapsticks...all the time....in case i might lose...one...
4. i can never wear an outfit with the following color patterns:
orange and black-halloween
yellow and black-bee
red and green-Christmas
Green and yellow-packers
green and brown-tree
yellow and green-daisy
red white and blue-USA
5. i apparently hum when i am enjoying something i am eating.
6. i collect really cheezy looking christmas mugs.

now i pick someone right?
and how do i put the name in the thing here?
i have no idea how to do the link....
ok ok.
old school way.

i tag my brother in law, Jamo at www.lamoson.blogspot.com and his bff jesse at www.davidjessemase.blogspot.com

there. i did it.
i'm done.
;)

Postcard

2008-11-30T20:58:00.000-08:00

Marty,
Thought you should know,
I started up smoking and can't stop and it's all your fault.

I don't blame it on the stress.
I endured too much in my day for weak excuses like that.
I can't blame it on those TV girls and their fashion.
I'd never fit into the pants to match.
I can't blame it on insecurity or the peer pressure.
I never doubted myself for a day.

I blame it all on you and your leaving.
Since not long after that
is when I started forgetting things.

Forgetting the way your shirt collars always smelled of gasoline and pines.
Forgetting the sound of your footsteps in the morning
with the weight of your boots on the wood floor.
Forgetting things like where your smile ended
and the creases in your brow began.
Forgetting your kisses, always a guilty mix
of spearamint and tobbacco,
a taste I always hated.
That is until you left.

Not long after that,
on our front porch,
the one you built,
is when I realized that sometimes,
love has a funny way of tasting like hate.

The kids tell me I'll shrivel up and get cancer of the lungs.
But I don't quite mind.
Long as I get to close my eyes
and get kissed each night with your memory.

If you come back down the road in your red pick up truck,
just like you did the night we ran away,
we can start over and forget this whole thing ever happened.

And I swear to God on my mother's grave
I'll up and quit the cigarrettes the minute you come home.

Just come home, Marty.

Til my dyin day,
Jean

HUGs

2008-11-26T23:26:00.000-08:00

As I walked home from work this morning, I received a phone call from one of our patients-
an extremely young woman who happens to have been alive for 70 years. We usually try to get together to talk about books
or play boggle but this particular afternoon she called for a different reason. She wanted to make sure that I had a place to go for Thanksgiving, and if I didn't, she was going to call up her son's wife and demand that an extra seat be made for me at their "banquet table."

Maybe it is the lack of sleep over the past several days, or just the overall feeling of joy that the holidays always bring,
but at that moment, walking by the lake with the sun on my face and Revera telling me to have a "smashing good time" in PA, I could not help but understand the Psalmists cry of thanks when he prayed, "My cup runneth over".

So here's to all He's given me, who fill me up and then some:

Mom and Dad- Thank you for introducing me to Jesus. Thank you for your example of what a marriage should look like. Thank you for constantly supporting me in every decision I make. Every wise decision rather...and for the unwise ones, thank you for your patience and discipline while I endured the consequences. You are my best coaches and my biggest fans. To say I am grateful doesn't even scratch the surface.

Bafe and Jamo-Thank you for always laughing with me, and sometimes laughing at me. Thank you for your comfort, your car rides, and your Sunday morning breakfasts. I have such a special appreciation for you both and have been inspired by your dedication to serve others.

Buggy and Bird-Thank you for your kind hearted hospitality towards me. Thank you for always being there when I call. Thank you for your compassion, for the trip to the zoo :), thank you for putting up with two older, overprotective sisters, thank you for the example of what it means to "Seek First".

Grammy- Thank you for your friendship, your advice, your hugs...your brown bread. Thank you for seeing pieces of you in me, Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for always being willing to do things with me...whether simply going swimming or trekking out of the country.

Grandad- thank you for setting the bar so high. and thank you for loving grammy. and thank you for dancing with me to Jungle book songs and the Chattanooga choo choo. i miss you.

Grandma and PopPop_You do not read this, but thank you for being completely and utterly devoted to your grandchildren. Thank you for all the gifts you have slipped into my unexpecting hand. Thank you for the years spent on your knees for us. Thank you for teaching us all the importance of dancing together.

Betty-Thank you for knowing absolutely everything about me, and thank you for loving me in spite of it all.
Thank you for simultaneously enduring the same life struggles so that I never have to go through them alone.

Georgia-Thank you for sharing beauty, for sharing tears and laughter, for doing me the honor of telling me the truth, even when it hurts, for cheering me on, for your picture of love, and your testimony of blessings.

Nattygan- Thank you for your patience, thank you for countless songs/band advice and even more nights of laughter and hysterics. Thank you for always taking time and for your example of hard work and dedication.

Katherine-Thank you for letting me live with you. Thank you for your generosity to all your friends. Thank you for never giving up...and thank you for Coldplay.:)

Kelly-Thank you for your gentle spirit, thank you for cooking wonderful dinners and great conversations. Thank you for always getting us free bachleva (sp?) and for always sharing my burdens without me ever having to ask.

Beatka-Thank you for being my first polish friend. And thank you for re-introducing me to my imagination. I owe you big.

James- Thank you for your artistry, for your enthusiasm towards life, for your loyalty to your friends.

Jesse-Thank you for encouraging me with my writing, and for constantly seeking after Truth.

Beatrice-Thank you for letting me in. Thank you for sharing your stories without me asking. Thank you for always making me hot chocolate. Thank you for being able to read my silent moods, even though we are decades apart.

Amanda-Thank you for your letters. Thank you for letting me be blessed by your children. Thank you for all your medical wisdom and always being a phone call away if I ever need anything.

Brad-Thank you for teaching me to cook fish. And thank you for being the most kind guy I have ever had the pleasure of being friends with.

Claire- Thank you for your guidance and your beautiful words and your experience that you are so quick to share. Thank you for the kingdom work you do.

Chris-Thank you for all your beautiful pictures and, for encouraging me all the time regardless of the fact that we have only met each other once.

Josh-You are completely against blogs, so you will never read this, but thank you for pushing me out of a plane.

Uptown Church-You are my second home. Thank you for being challenging and comforting at the same time.
Thank you for giving me a place to use my gifts, and thank you for letting me be blessed by your youth.

Lord,
Thank you for salvation.
Thank you for abundant life.
and thank you for the promise of heaven,
where I pray that someday
I will stand side by side all these I cherish
and sing of your unending love for us all.

Conversations re: Interchangable qualities of Writing and Design

2008-11-26T19:42:00.000-08:00

Ok, so since I lapsed in writing you this last Wednesday, I am going to send you two essays, one today (Monday) and one in the middle of the week as we originally planned. This actually works out quite well since I wanted to talk to you about two important factors story telling. Each are significant in their own right, but they are most definitely dependent on each other when it comes down to telling a tale that makes people want to read further than the first couple lines. The first of these skills is nothing other than...you got it, OBSERVATION.

Ernest Hemingway has this to say about the topic:
"Listen NOW. When people talk, listen completely. Don’t be thinking what you’re going to say. Most people never listen. Nor do they observe. You should be able to go into a room and when you come out know everything that you saw there and not only that. If that room gave you any feeling you should know exactly what it was that gave you that feeling. Try that for practice. When you’re in town stand outside the theatre and see how the people differ in the way they get out of taxis or motor cars. There are a thousand ways to practice. And always think of other people.
By Line: Ernest Hemingway, pp. 219-220

A design may have a good subject matter, but as you have written to me in emails prior, there are several other different details that all attribute to amplifying the main picture/idea. Without those intricate factors, the design lacks the “wow” factor. It is the same with a good story. It doesn’t matter if a writer has the most heart-wrenching or revolutionary plot that has ever existed, if he or she does not execute the telling with an acute awareness for detail, then it is nothing more than a theme at best. One cannot obtain those needed details without observation. Whether it is a documentation of a literal environment of sights and sounds, or a figurative environment in ones mind, the need is still the same. The author has to train himself to gather up all that he can so that when he recollects the events to his audience, they are fed a feast of flavors. While this may seem like a simple task, it is really much harder to do than one would think. The fast paced world we live in at present makes it especially difficult to even notice anything more than the obvious.

For example, on an average visit to a diner, most individuals would not be concerned with whether or not one woman’s nylons were a pale cream or a sheer flesh color. Or if the man at the table behind her was reading the sports section or the personal ads, and whether or not he had two creamers in his coffee or one. Or whether or not she nervously fidgeted with her pearl earring or was just fixing the clasp.

However, the observant storyteller walks into the room and is concerned with only these small details. Why? Because look what we are able to do with a few simple observations.

If the man and woman were at two different tables and the man was reading the personal sections and not the sports and the woman was nervously playing with her pearl earrings, than we can infer that he is not in a relationship and she is not comfortable eating alone. If he had two creamers in his coffee perhaps he is a more sensitive man than most. If she has pearl earrings and pale cream nylons, than perhaps we can say that she is a little more conservative and whimsical than most. Voila. Without any dialogue or obvious narrative statements, we see glimpse of a story already beginning to unfold. Two lonely hearts sit unknowingly back to back, in a local diner.

There is probably no author that I know of who has mastered the art of observation better than Virginia Woolf. Here is a small excerpt from her book entitled Mr. Dalloway.

“In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge, in the bellow and the up-roar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwhich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.”.

Well there you have it. Part I of our two part series. Let me know if you have any questions, as topics such as the ones we are discussing have various inquiries that could arise at any corner.

P.S. Thank you for notating the importance of "movement" in a design. It has caused me to think critically about this area of my writing...

2008-11-23T21:27:00.001-08:00

Cat.
You make palaces out of paper bags.

Teach me how to do the same.

To graciously accept what has been given
And gratefully turn it into something telling of His glory.

Because there is no use dreaming of things that I do not have.
And no point pining for places that I have not been sent.

Cat.
You are just a cat.

So if you can work this kind of magic,
Then so should I.
So very well should I.

Hey Bou

2008-11-23T19:21:00.000-08:00

(This one is a repeat sent to friends a family a few year back via email...
but has had a requested appearance for blog land.
For you, Mrs. Heldman! (aka, Sharon :)

So the other day I was patting myself on the back for having become so
very adept to the evening rushes when I work bar.

Yes, I was thinking this fact proudly in my mind while
calmly handling a 20 person rush.

I was feeling so good in fact, that I even thought I would start up a
conversation with the georgous brazillian guy who comes in every day
and always orders a 5 shot Americano with white chocolate.

Now usually I do not talk while I make drinks because I want to concentrate.
And USUSALLY I don’t talk to attractive guys because I end up saying/doing
something extremely lame in the presence of their good lookingness.

THIS day, was different though. I had confidence and energy from my barista
awsomeness and so I branched out and did two things that
(as I mentioned previously) I usually never do.
Scratch that word “usually”. More like “always” never do.
Which is probably grammatically incorrect to say, but I think it gets the point across.
I always never.

Anyways. So I begin.

Things were going really well. He laughed at a joke or something I said,
and that felt great. I think I even managed a hair flip or two in there,
which is impressive when one is wearing pigtails.
The minutes flew by and pulled to perfection, his shots were done.
So I grabbed a clutch for his to-go cup with my left hand and the
espresso shots in the other. Continuing to bask in my glory,
I look over to him to answer one of his questions
about the song that is currently playing.
(The song that I have already have the band playing at our wedding).

As I am brilliantly responding with high magnitudes of wit and charm,
I start to feel something drip on my foot.
However, he is far too attractive for me to break eye contact with
espeicially for something as insignificant as this…and yet …
Suddenly I felt a very hot liquid sensation burning my ankle…
and at that same moment I saw his expression…
it had changed from one of interest and candor to...

The raised eybrow of , “what the????”

I looked back at the bar to see what my hands were doing.

I had just poured 5 shots of espresso into a cardboard sleeve.
AND, since MOST cardboard cup holders don’t have a bottom to them
They had gone right through the OPEN SPACE OF AIR, onto the counter,
And onto the floor.

"How does one recover from this??????"
My mind screamed.

To which was quickly answered by the more intelligent side of my pshyche,
(small, but bold)

“um, you DON”T.”

So not only did I give myself reason #789 why I should always never talk to good looking guys,
But I also messed up my speedy barista mojo.
Now I am back at turtle pace,
making sure that every single sleeve I grab, makes it’s way DIRECTLY onto the cup.

Stepping Back/Closer Look

2008-11-20T21:28:00.000-08:00

“Every now and then go away, have a little relaxation, for when you come back to your work your judgment will be surer. Go some distance away because then the work appears smaller and more of it can be taken in at a glance and a lack of harmony and proportion is more readily seen."

Leonardo da Vinci

Horizons

2008-11-16T21:34:00.000-08:00

"I do not fear death's voyage."

He said.

"I only tremble at the
thought of
waiting,
floating,
drifting
in the shallows of her dark sea."

Photograph by sir james.

Between

2008-11-15T07:32:00.000-08:00

It is dawn. This morning has been waiting for you, with words hovering above your bed. She beckons softly, whispering of places and times you have not traveled, with talents and people you have not met. If you trust her, if you cast sleep aside and follow to the old wooden desk in the corner, you will find she has prepared for you a feast.

Stories spread out lavishly before you-with phrases rich and brimming with potential. Every character seasoned to perfection. The metaphors are warm and light. Bittersweet dialogues percolate at steady paces. Adjectives spill their amber sweetness onto this open plate they call craft.

And all the while she stands at silent attention, urging you to partake, to dive into this sweet hour of nourishment.

You do not have much time before the earth starts spinning again. She does her best to stave off the chaos, but eventually her stance will buckle and the noise will come crashing through your bedroom window and the celebration will be swept away. The phone will ring, the cars will hum, the neighbors will yell, the cats will fight, the pipes will roar…all forces that will prove too much for this delicate moment.

The day ahead will be long and you will have to search amidst the teeming confusion to find even pieces of the splendor that is before you now.

So quick, pick up your pen and begin. There is not much time left, but take what you can.

This golden hour is the writing hour.
And she waits each day for you.

Singledom in 2 parts.

2008-11-10T20:22:00.000-08:00

1.

I cannot say for sure,
but I think I recently was on a blind date with not one,
but two, count'em TWO, polish guys.

Beatka had begged me to attend a jazz concert with her last week,
and since she offered free sheep cheese and wine,
I willingly obliged...
As any good Wisconsin girl would do when the possibility of sheep cheese is involved.

Shortly into the show,
and mere seconds after discovering
that the word "minority" would be an understatement to describe my presence in that club
i realized that my sneaky Perogi making "friend" had somehow managed
to squeeze me inbetween two guys of whom I had never met before,
and of whom I had no means of communicating with...

(Beatka later shares on the car ride home that this is silly, that the language of love is universal...
But looking back over the following conversation between myself, Marak, and Tomas, I would have to stay I still disagree with her on this one).

M: HULLO GURLA PREETY!

Hey...Marak right? What is that like...Mark, in English?

M: MMMM...YES? MA...WHA???????.

T: BEER. YOU TRY DA POLISH BEERA GURL!!!!

Hm. Wow. Yeah, I don't really like drinking all that much...I kind of had a bad...

M: I AM DA PAY!

(at this point Tomas rattles off something to the bartender who is dressed in what appears to be a netted 80's tank top with a hot pink bra...she delivers 3 large bottles of some kind of dark ale...)

T: TO DA GURLA!

M: TACH. TO DA GURLA!

they both raise their bottles above my head and do cheers. Then Marach hands me a coaster and a pen and makes a phone signal with his hands. I turn to look at Thomas who round shiny face is nodding enthusiasticly...

Er...you want my number?

M: TACH ..COOL YES?

T: (is doing a very americanized thumbs up at this point)

Hm. Wow. well guys, that is very flattering, honestly it is, but I am going to have to be very forward with you here. I just am not really all that into giving my phone number out to people that I don't know. It isnt that I don't appreciate the kind gesture of you buying me an authentic alchoholic Polish beverage. That isn't it. And you both have very nice personalities and have been very...er...generous to me. But I just don't think it is going to work...I hope that is ok?....

Silence...There is a blank, somber stare on both of their faces...
then suddenly, in unison,

DAH!!! GURLA!!! NUMBER!!! WOO_HOOO!!! POLISH BEERUH!!!!!!

Ah.
As you can see.
A bit rocky at parts,
but my shortlived romance seemed to have had a good ending...

Transition to more a serious reflection on matters of the "single status" taking place right about...
HERE

2.

Agreed.
Good men are hard to find.
But I think part of the problem stems from the fact that...
Good women are not supposed to be out looking for them.

You can't meet a new neighbor if you are never home.
And you can't be rescued by "prince charming"
if you've already jumped from the tower
and are flirting with the stable boys.

It's not that I don't understand the desire,
It's just that I don't understand the urgency.

Such gifts of great meausre are bestowed along the waiting way,
leaving one with that much more to give the moment they are "found".

Yes. The hunt for good men.
It is an expedition I am not particularly up for.
Let the others go with their clutches and curls...

I am content to wait.
Asking only for the strength to continue the path that He has placed me on,
abiding with all the wonderful people He has placed me with.

And telling always, only,
of His Greatness.

Unfinished Poems

2008-11-08T16:17:00.000-08:00

They were here.
Here is where the hats were hung, and scarves were draped over smooth oak arms. And here was the carved, wooden cane propped up against a Sunday- yellow umbrella. Here was the sound of a wailing teapot. Here was the smell of cinnamon toast that wrapped you up and invited you in.
Here is where the books were read, and bifocals lay sprawled upon the marked pages of worn epics. And here were the sitting chairs, the ones next to the firelight that danced on the worn edges of the floor’s tapestry. And here is where the clock chimed its steady song of time, while the cat looked upward and kept track with corresponding flicks of his tail.
Here is where the records were played, the steady arm tracing its needle through each musical groove of a Waltz in C Major. And here was the red-bellied kettle. And here is where the two mugs stood side by side, chipped and cracked, silver spoons resting at their necks. And here is where the mason jar of honey sat, where crystal gold syrup clung and dripped down the glass’ edge onto wedges of lemon.
Here is where the pictures were placed. Here is where each photo surrounded the long dining room table. Here is where their history stood in faded grays and watched all the guests with smiling eyes. Here was her desk by the window, littered with parchment paper and handwritten letters.

And here was an un-capped pen
mid thought,
mid sentence,
mid word….

Now she is there.
There is where the hats are hung and scarves are thrown onto small shiny hooks. There is the waiting room with the waiting wheelchairs and the automatic doors. There is the sound of angry sirens. There is the pungent smell of antiseptic. There is where magazines lie untouched. There is the florescent light glaring down on plastic plants. There is the buzzing electric clock that barrels through time. There are the swinging double doors. There are the generic poster paintings on cold, beige walls. There is the speaker system always humming in hurried codes. There is the window into a room. There are the metal bed rails. There is where the IV looms unfeeling overhead. There is where the saline drips through plastic tubes into the waiting arm of the one she knows. There are the machines screaming in sporadic, angry beats.
There is the rush of strangers. There is the rush of shocks. There are her aged, shaking hands reaching out urgently for his…

There is the silence.
There is the wailing of an electric red line.
There is the line that has left her alone.

Mid breath,
mid life,
mid love.

Good Friday.

2008-11-02T23:02:00.000-08:00

It is the evening before our departure. The dinner bell has rung, but something else, something much stronger than hunger bids me “stay”. So I remain sitting porchside, overlooking the valley. As the sun continues to slip out of view, leaving the sky with only embers of light, the temperature begins to drop significantly. The sweat on my brow dries with cold breezes that send chills down both arms. I sit on the edge of the old wooden bench and slowly put down my evening tea. There is thunder in the distance. Birds scatter out frantically from a grove of trees. The dogs begin barking… something is happening…

I am standing at the edge now, standing over Tegucigulpa’s lights, standing across its surrounding hills. The breezes blow harder and I wrap my fingers around the iron guard rail just below my waist, somehow attempting to brace myself for the force I feel coming. The winds pick up and roar violently past my ears.

Now. Just over there. In the light of dusk, I can see it coming from over the horizon- thick billows of gray fog crusading in from all sides. It comes with a gait like those of horses, riding powerfully, deftly into battle. Darkness is on the move, and behind its' foreboding haze, follows yet another crushing storm of the week.

The city lights that just moments ago seemed so bold and daring in the clear evening sky, are now dim and small. They are unaware of what is coming, of what is almost upon them.

Lightening strikes to my right and I quickly turn my gaze to find that I am not the only onlooker watching the attack from above. There he stands, the statue of Christ, on the tall cliff of a neighboring hill. Ever morning I have seen him, with his arms outstretched over the towns below, his stance unchanged, his gaze fixed…just as he does at this moment.

I fix my own gaze back to the now engulfed city.
And I suddenly see more than than the simple effects of hot air meeting cold. The fog has transformed into a living, moving being that embodies every story of brokenness and pain, and it is coming directly for Him. The broken families, the broken bodies, the broken dreams… the hurt, the poverty, the tears, the need, the depravity, the fear…it flies with the darkness towards His open arms, His waiting chest until finally…

He is covered.
The darkness settles and the storms begin.

...

Tonight I cannot see the Valley of Angels from the pillow of my wooden bunk bed. Tonight I cannot hear Jolene whisper “goodnight Tegucigulpa” as she climbs onto the mattress beneath me. Tonight the storm is loud and tonight my tears are silent and tonight I cannot shake the image of every sorrow of every sin, including my own, weighing heavily on His own broken body.

Oh but daughter of the King.
Must you always be so quick to forget that His stories never end in defeat,
and that joy always, always, comes in the morning...

Side Effects

2008-10-28T21:32:00.000-07:00

When I am
with my family,
colors seem brighter.

I know that there are many other blessings that stem forth from the bold nature of unconditional, unchanging, unwavering
love...

But on warm fall days,
nothing seems to beat a winding drive
through golden trees
with my family.

Mental Health Moment

2008-10-26T20:56:00.000-07:00

As my bff so eloquently stated a few weeks ago:
" wowzee, using your brain gets tiring sometimes..."
Now while her own intelligence could be put up
for debate after a quote like this,
I think there is alot of validity behind the sentiment.

Which is why I am spitting out the following.
because "wowzee, my brain is tired".

1. I am trying to figure out how to construct myself into a giant donut for this tuesday's youth group "fall festival".
any mechanical advice on configuring an outfit of this sort would be much appreciated. (something to consider: I have to take the El to get to destination)

2. it is so freaking cold. while boarding the Western stop tonight after youth meeting, a "gentlemen" hollered at me from across the street, proposing "I'll keep you warm baby, yeah that's right..."
Had it been 2 degrees colder, I think I might have actually taken him up on the offer.
(mom. i am kidding, i wouldn't have...but if hearing real life stories like this makes you want to send me long johns, then i am ok with that....)

3. note to self. the night you wear pig tails, ratty sweater, and clompy boots, is the night a young, georgous brazillian literature professor will sit next to you and dial his sister to talk about that morning's church service. further note: the fact that he caught you in the middle of mowing down on a piece of roommate intended pumpkin pie will not play in your favor.
things to keep in mind, jensen...things to keep in mind.

4. school, i am coming to get you, sooner than you know. just wait for it. i miss you too.

5. in children's church today i saw an eight year old boy eat more goldfish crackers in a two minute period than i could ever hope to eat in my lifetime. it was pretty incredible.

this list is so lame.
i didn't even make it past five
and it is more a diary entry than anything.
shameful.

but weather.com says it is supposed to snow tommorrow.
so i'll consider this my winter lament,
scold myself for a day or two,
and then move on.

Modern Day Wizardry

2008-10-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

....Have we met before?
I feel as though we have-
yet I know not the time or place...

Did we stand and discuss in songs as we do this afternoon?
Composing lyrics of chess games and bird baths and steaming toys...

When the shop door opened just moments ago,
and the bell rang it's friendly, welcoming "DinG",
I could have sworn it was because you winked your laughing blue eyes...

Perhaps I saw you walking once,
perhaps we walked down the same tree lined street,
and you tipped your hat,
and hooked your thumb behind your left suspender,
and said "well hello there",
just as you did when we first came in.

The other two customers
have loud, expensive shoes that bang on your wooden floors.
The parrott in the corner started screaming at them.
I could have sworn it was because snapped your ink-covered fingers.

Or maybe at the bookstore across the alley.
Maybe I watched you from behind a novel,
and you pulled out your glasses,
and turned each novels page with expert deliberation,
and causally stuffed your pipe with smells of sweet plumb tobacco,
just as you are doing now.

Yes.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

Then again. Be realistic.

Perhaps Maybe Not.

So here we are to say goobye,
and thank you for the pleasure
and for the conversation and for the iced tea,
and for the pleasure of conversation over iced tea...

But when the shop door closed behind me
and I saw the gift like gold shining at my feet in the afternoon light,
I knew it was because your warm wrinkled hand had just shook mine.

I brushed the hanging ivy aside from the store front window to say "Thank You",
but you were nowwhere in sight.
just a steaming toy truck on a worn, threadbare rug.

photograph by sir james.

2008-10-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

We are working on our 6th patient of the morning. The heat is unbearable. I am drenched with sweat. Scarlett’s duct-taped loops keep falling from her eyes and onto the patient’s paper towel bib. We work hurriedly and efficiently, not from lack of care, but because she knows the line is long and each patient most likely will have such significant amounts of decay that we will be re-constructing entire teeth, not patching up pin holes. I hold the battery-weakened curing light to the occlusal surface. We have 30 seconds to breathe and my gaze lands on her supplies, marveling at what she is able to accomplish with a literal tackle box of such few materials. I hand her the last of 3 plastic strips. We have already cut them in half. We can’t conserve anymore. She clears her throat. This means she is going to say something to me. “Yesica. Where are you? Tell me where you are. What you thinking?”

Scarlett is this way, one of those people able to see you when she looks at you. The first morning I worked with her I found it to be somewhat disconcerting…but throughout the week her discernment has become a rare form of comfort. I hand her the composite material. I have stopped asking what shade she needs because it does not matter here.

“I am thinking…how do you do all this…with… with so little…? And how do you not get tired?” Now the plastic instrument. We only have one. “Welllll…Yesika...I guesses I am just amazing, what can I say?” Her eyes laugh at me over her mask. Curing light again, equilibration, another minute of instructions, the patient spits into a wastebasket, and we say goodbye.

Scarlett rips off her gloves and looks at her watch. “One more.” As I begin to wipe down the chair for the second “one more” of the morning, she reaches over and touches my hand. I stop.

“Yesica. Listen to me. God blesses all in different ways. But He choose to bless you with opportunity. Opportunity we do not have here. I thank God for my life, for what I do, but there is more, there is much I desire, but not all will be. And I am tired. Very tired. But pressing on, always pressing on, yes?”
“Si. Yes, Scarlett”
“Cheque. Good. “Cool.”

She smiles and Marcus hands her his dental form. I stand to get the necessary anesthetics. This is the last vile of Lidocaine we have for our morning supply. As Scarlett prepares the patient and administers the first injection, she closes her eyes and sighs deeply. Now she is the one who is somewhere else, and I watch her quietly as she goes-watch her strong beautiful face, her strong beautiful faith, unwavering, in spite of all her broken dreams.

2008-10-23T19:28:00.000-07:00

Images of Sickness

Today I am working in the pharmacy-a station consisting of two folding tables and seven or so trunks of donated medicines. We are sharing the same room as the nurses. Doctor Hector is set up in the corner. Screaming children bury their fevered cries in between their mother's legs. A few older men sit stoically along the wall in kindergarten school chairs. They have walked far and waited long for this-for all the nurses sitting before me, for the doctor in the corner, and for the hodgepodge of medicines they are trusting will alleviate their pain. I stand along the wall, prescriptions in hand, completely baffled. Several are written in spanish, some in scribbles, others have so many medications that I do not even know how to start filling them all. Meanwhile, the mothers watch with their unwavering gaze. Every time my hand reaches for infant Tylenols, or topical gels, or calcium pills they watch with intense hope. As the day continues on and I gain clarity towards my task, I begin to look up, to look out...and realize why.

There is a woman sitting 3 feet in front of me, talking to Julie about a skin condition on her neck. I watch Julie's face. It is evident she has never seen a type of infection like this. She asks the translator to have the woman explain how long it had been going on. I watch again as she talks, motioning to her neck, then spreading down her arms, her stomach, and to her leg. She lifts up her skirt over the edge of her kneecap and I stop breathing. The main portion of her calf is entirely blistered, scarred and black, an appearance completely unlike the "rash" that was plaguing the rest of the body. Julie asks, "What is this? What happened here?" The translator answers: "Her leg, she has had this infection for 8 years. Very painful. Someone tells her there are bacteria. To kill it, pour on the boiling water. So she did. Those are the scars."

Lunchtime. It is raining heavily. Over the din of the water on the metal roof, Anna tells me she has been massaging the muscles of a woman who makes up to 400 tortillas a day and barely breaks even. Her back is twisted and swollen and her hands are cramped and calloused from years of this work. This reminds us of another woman, who's scoliosis is so severe she stands at a 90 degree angle, all because she has swept the streets every single day of her life.

Break is over. Everyone is pointing for the liquid medicine, the one we have "guarded" on the far left table, for patients with worms. Jolene says they all have them, and that if we can, we should recommend dosage to everyone who comes through the door. She says they are often asking her for something to "kill the snakes", for "axes to kill the big snakes." She tells me of a little girl who feels them crawl up her throat each night out of hunger.

Hour after hour passes, and the apparent need for healing grows with the late afternoon shadows. Each prescription filled is done with a mixture of regret and gratitude. Gratitude that we are able to give them something, regret that this is not enough. This one vile will not heal, it will only alleviate for a short time. And these trunks of vitamins may help build up their immune, but their bones will still be weak, their children will still lack nutrition, and their parents will still endure back breaking pain. This muscle treatment may loosen each tendon for a time, but after we leave tomorrow she will go back to her job and right back into her disability.

Evening has come and the bus pulls away. The townspeople are waving goodbye. It is pouring now and I can barely see their faces through the sheets of water on the bus window. I cannot pray, and so I write:

Lord, Great Physician. It is clear that had we all the doctors in the world, all the nurses in the field, and all the medicine pharmaceutics had to offer-it would still not be enough. So please, do here what we cannot, restore all the broken bodies...

2008-10-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

"Alexandria".
She tells me her name is Alexandria as she stares up at me with her wide brown eyes and twists the fraying hem of her dirtied, pink t-shirt. I kneel down and brush her soaked, black, bangs to see her better. "Cuanto anos,Alexendria?" She hold up her hand. 6. She is 6.

Moments ago I had watched her from the sidelines of the room listening to the story with the rest of the children and a toddler on her lap. She struggled to keep him situated as he was too big for someone her size and someone her age, to be holding. I look around to see where he is at now and find he is being sung to by one of the translators. I point across the dimly lit, make shift room and her gaze follows. "Hermanos?". She nods and points to 5 other children, then over to a woman standing in the doorway, who is nursing an infant.

Alexandria beams as I lift her up onto the bench to start combing her wet, knotted hair. It smells strongly of chemicals and her hand is marked with a sticker. I reach for the lice combs. Her legs dangle over the edge, tapping the air with refrained excitement. So I begin...and as I do my mind begins to travel to a different room, one far from the the cement walls and dirt floors of this Honduran town, traveling instead to the carpeted hallways of my childhood Wisconsin home. I skip down the hallway with a book in my hand. My pink nightgown is clean and warm from the dryer and my shampoo smells like apples. I sit down to read and my father begins. My father is brushing my hair. My father...

Now I am back with Alexandria. She turns her head up at me and smiles again. As I smile silently back and begin braiding, the devastation of a culture who's fathers are absent, who's men are always leaving and whose women are always being left, becomes all too clear.

I had heard of the horrifying statistics at our nightly meetings...but now I understood what those numbers meant. Now I understood that one of my greatest blessings was one of her greatest needs.

Before saying goodbye I wrap each end of her shining hair in sparkling pink bobbles and whisper, "muy bonita". She bounds off the bench, glowing with pride and runs to embrace her mothers hips. The rest of them have all been waiting for her. Laughing, she scoops up her wobbling brother. As they walk back out into the pot-holed streets, I struggle to keep the tears at bay. We begin packing up and as we do, I find myself whispering a desperate prayer, one begging for God to provide for all the fatherless children,for all the lonely mothers...and for all the broken families.

2008-10-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

Second Looks

Little red balloon girl,
always hovering just so,
far from the ground but further from heaven,
always getting caught in tree tops,
while aiming for the sky.

The winds they blow, she bounces around and comes back down, and gets caught in someone's tiny hand for a time. But only for a time. Because the grasp will always lapse. And it did. And off she goes again, wondering why she can't be tied down, why can't somebody tie her down...
please don't anybody tie her down.

She's the little red balloon girl in red coats and red scarves, wishing for everything while hoping for nothing, enjoying the view from above while envying all events below.

They tell her one day she'll meet a solid rock, and they will fall in "love" and he'll tie her apronstring to a shiny rock, "so you can still float, just never have to worry about getting lost".

But the days come and go and he never shows and she's at it again. The winds are awake and they don't let her sleep in.

Little red balloon girl just flew past my window and waved. I can't tell if she is smiling or crying. So I just wave and point her to the nearest park bench.

photograph by sir james.

*this post brought to you by a game temporarily entitled "give and take". My extremely talented photo friend James and I have decided to stretch our creative muscles together with image/text text/image challenges. The way it works is that we each send a piece or a shot that we want the other to capture via story or picture. Upon receiving the file we have approximately 2 weeks (excuse me, EXACTLY 2 weeks) to complete the project and post the merged creation. For example, I sent this blurb to James about a week ago with instructions to "find her". True to writer-ly form, I am taking all the time I can to complete my photo story assignment...merely because I am procrastinating...true to writer-ly form....

Look for more of these exercises in the months to come!

2008-10-19T22:19:00.000-07:00

The Start.
(1st in daily series for the week).

As the bus begins it’s long ascent up the Tegucigulpa mountain, I stare out the open window in silence. There is noise everywhere. Noise and chaos and not a single word or sign that I can read to help make sense of it all. I scan each crowded street and barred shack for a point of reference, something to jumpstart an adaptation…nothing. Motorcycles squeeze between cars and onto sidewalks, horns rage at each blind turn, starved and wild dogs are fighting in dirt alleyways. The air is heavy and smells of diesel and urine and sweat. The higher we climb the faster we drive and the faster the reel of foreign colors, questioning eyes, and littered streets play before me in a vivid, chaotic blur. They say this is South of America, but I feel as though I have arrived south of another world.

Just when I think the spinning will never stop, the bus screeches to a halt and awaits outside the entrance to our guarded home for the week. We are up with the clouds now and the sun casts a golden glow onto city, onto the now peaceful arena that truthfully, I feel I have narrowly escaped. I turn to jot a frantic note on airport napkin paper, a note about the feeling of sensory and emotional overload, a note on the sadness, on the ugliness, when suddenly a shimmer of light catches my eye. I lean further out over the bus’ edge and discover I am an arms length away from a man made wall. It is nothing out of the ordinary except that this one is covered with broken glass bottles that have been cemented along the top edge. Multiple colors of green, clear, and brown, all stand menacingly with their sharp necks to the sky to ward off theft. On our way up we had seen countless stretches of barbed wire, but nothing like this.

The bus lurches forward again. As it moves, the setting sun follows behind and splashes playfully through each broken shard. I whisper to myself that it is “all quite pretty”, scribbling “broken beauties” on my makeshift notepad. We pull up to our destination and are quickly ushered to our rooms where we are advised to get much needed rest for the challenging days to come. My head hits the pillow exhausted, and begins replaying image after fleeting image of the day, always only able to come back to the shattered, shining glass... Sleep soon finds me and so I rest, completely unaware that the image carrying me into my dreams is to be the same image by which God chooses to reveal His heart for the Honduran people-His heart for all of His broken beauties.

2008-10-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

Things They Never Tell You .

The downside of attempting to be a so called "writer",
is that when it comes to returning from literal journeys in life,
the suitcase may be empty
but the unpacking is far from over.

So here I am, Lord,
before a Niagra of words,
holding out my little red sippy cup...

realizing this could take a while
and hoping that the force of it all doesn't drown this weary traveler.

2008-10-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

Working with Love and Water

Ex. 1

Your kisses are like the waves.
Sometimes gentle and shy,
brushing lightly over sand
making these naked toes dance and curl with delight.

Othertimes, strong and daring
crashing passionly up the shore,
taking this wader by surprise and knocking her off her feet.

I wouldn't mind drowning in this sea.
Keep the waves coming.
I'll stay here all night.

Ex. 2
The day I realized that you were mine and I was yours, was on an afternoon spent secretly using your parent's pool.

You walked lazily in circles, chest deep, trailing me behind you on my floating yellow bed .We moved in slow motion, but spoke with eagerness about things like truth and morality and whether or not people are basically good or basically full of it..., all this intermitted with talk of Wolverine and cheesecake.

The past several years of our marriage has made us good at this- this water drifting summer day dance of meaningful conversation ,you brushing the bees from my toes, and me sneaking smiling glimpses of your smiling back brown eyes.

They say that love is when you have found the one you cannot live without.
I am not so sure. Everyone can go on living without some one.
This is not skepticism. This is science.

That afternoon, as you reached down your hand to pull me out of the water, and wrapped a towel around my shoulders
I realized that love is more simply this:

When you have found yourself in the best possible company imaginable.

I cannot imagine wanting to dance on the water with anyone other than you.
So I guess this means love.

Ex. 3.
To the Ocean:
I am sorry we did not get to see each other much during this trip.
I saw you through some Newport alley ways, but it was dark then,
and I wasn't in the drivers seat.
I have not forgotten you.
In all these year you would think your song would be a distant memory,
but that is far from the truth.
If anything, your absence has only heightened my awareness of your shore song,
and I find myself listening intently on crowded streets for traces of your notes...
A seagull in a parking lot, saltwater taffy in the local candy store, the roar of a plane engine,
sometimes even the treading tires on rain covered streets will guide me back to you and your lullaby.
I am hoping, romantically I suppose, that since it seems I cannot forget you,
that maybe your tides,
your ebbs and flows are closer to me than I think,
and that when we meet again, it will be ocean joining ocean,
not body meeting sea.

Ex. 4
The thing about being caught in the rain is that you have to let it fall.
It's so funny to me how rain can either make a girl look like a drowned rat...
or the most beautiful creature alive, depending on whether she chooses to fight it or not.

Rain has no competition. Not even when faced with waterproof mascara.
So it's best to just let it soak into your hair and dance on your skin.

*photograph taken by Beth Adams, Location: Nice

Life Size is the Super Size.

2008-09-29T17:29:00.000-07:00

Five Chapter Mini Book Entitled :Why it is hard to take life too seriously:
Non-Ficition, written by Jessi and Beatka, purely auto-biographical.

Chapter 1: Dating

How was your date last night?

With who, cookie?

With the guy with the little hand.

Oh. You mean the crippled?

oh wow. don't say crippled. say "handicapped".

....(pause)....OH! oh yes! I SEE now. makes the sense. because of his HAND.
yes, HANDicapped man was very nice.

Chapter 2: Office Drama

cookie, LOOKIE! there they are, there are da grrls!

yikes! The Barbie Army! quick. hide your chinese food! hide it!

wha? why!

because! they always give us that look like we are the fat misfit dental assistants.

cookie.

what?

we ARE.

Chapter 3: dreams and aspirations

Beatka.

cookie.

we have to get out of here.

someday cookie, OOH how about to the Paris!, they have better croissants than this place i thinks.

no, i mean we have to get out of this coffee shop

why? i just got the tea, Cookie
HAH, tea cookie, like you are a tea cookie! get it?

beatka, LOOK at my SHIRT. i am COVERED in espresso here.
we NEED to GO.

oh my. that was dumf.
that what you get for being so round up in there.

Chapter 4: Advice on life.

Maybe I just should relax a little bit.

Cookie, it like I told you. No matter where you go your back be still your back.

Wow. That was really profound actually thank you.

Yes. And also, the mice never mind the bricks.

Hm. maybe you should have stopped while you were ahead.

No sense?

No. not really.

Mm. Ok. I tried.

Chapter 5: Heart to Hearts

Cookie. I has to tell you somfink else.

About my butt again?

No...but that still big.

Ok, then what. Hit me.

You will not going like it.

I've developed a thick skin. go for it.

Ooh the kay....your lips are vurry FAT.

You told me that last week already.

Oh. I did?

yes.

Oh. nevermindz then. carry on mys little dunkey!

Ps. 34:18

2008-09-28T21:39:00.000-07:00

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit."

Stand.

2008-09-23T21:37:00.000-07:00

I cannot stand you.
Everything about your actuality.
From the way you move, to the way you speak, to the way you work.
And the thing I have realized after all these years…
Is that you cannot stand me either.
Everything about my potential,
From the way I can choose to move, to the way I can choose to speak, to the way I can choose to work.

To the way I can choose to walk out of your classroom.

Perhaps not without a few parting words?
I am, after all, to speak my mind, aren’t I?
I am, after all, to establish myself as superior, aren’t I?
I am after all, to hate the enemy, aren’t I?

Aren’t I?

Only this time, I speak against YOU
Only this time I stand above YOUR weakness.
Only this time, I hate the REAL enemy.

When this all started, I was ignorantly unaware that you would use the things I clung to the most to bring about my own seduction- my connection to story, my affinity towards words, my struggle with pride, and my tendency to want to fix the broken. Into this bittersweet wine, you silently poured your poisons, and I drank them all.

I remember:

Yellow peeling wallpaper, and ads of headless women selling products with their bodies. I remember discussing sculptures of female bodies in cages, and songs and lyrics all lamenting captivity. I remember evaluating political events, historical events, and religious events: “Where are the women where are the women where are the women? They are sick and trapped and being forced to submit”.

End of year one: The story of women’s enslavement. Class is dismissed... not yet convinced.

I remember:
The word “they” and the chasms that were divided with this simple pronoun.
The chasm of us vs. them, of ME vs…MEN. I remember statistics of harassment, testimonies of sexist decisions, and articles of injustice. I remember reading “the impossibility of uttering a female word, when all language is male dominated”. I remember the juxtaposition of feminism and femininity, where we are called to see the same root word and then deduce that they are interchangeable.

End of year two. The worlds of words. Class is dismissed…"enlightened", but not quite enthralled.

I remember:
Being told of my talents. Being commended on how I can view the world in ways no one else can. I remember being praised on reading into a metaphor differently than my male counterparts. I remember guidance towards the potential to be a spokeswoman, to regain steps that have been lost. I remember the warm feelings that accompanied a simple textbook answer, feelings of “Here I am, here I am knowing the answer to this question and responding more articulately than you…maybe the warnings are right…”

End of year three. Pride cometh before…everything. Class is dismissed. ahh yes...am starting to "see"...

I remember:
“You cannot call yourself a Christian and NOT be a feminist”. I remember being put side by side with the Jewish nation, with those of African American decent and with the gay community. Being told that I, just like them, have suffered insurmountable hardships, have been stripped of my dignity, robbed of my freedoms, and demeaned for my sexuality. I remember verses of Christians protecting the widowed and the poor. I remember being told that choosing to be a feminist was choosing to see an end to oppression of every variety, and wouldn’t I like to join and fight?

End of year Four. Superwoman Strength = Godliness. Class dismissed. I have crossed over.

Transformation complete.

Just in time to walk across the stage and receive a piece of paper celebrating my educational achievements-
Celebrating a transformation you brought about so seamlessly that I could not see the shadow it cast over the years to come. Over job positions, over church leadership, over community, over family, over relationships…

So.
Now is the time when you ought to start being nervous.
Because now I will tell YOU to sit down and to listen to ME.
Brace your wicked white hands on your mammoth black desk,
Because I speak as one who is free now. I speak as one who was lovingly lured back to stand on the pillars of Faith with which she was raised, and not on your columns of lies.

Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she was deceived and she was oppressed, and she was exiled. But her un-doing came from turning away from the Truth, Truth that you belittled. You tell countless stories with the antagonist in the form of a man, in the form of all men, and you do it skillfully enough that we actually overlook the real source of turmoil and instead, eagerly sacrifice the scapegoat and call this murder of our fellow man,( the men whose stories we are called to support and admire and uplift) all in the name of “standing up for ourselves, and taking back our voice.” Also, do not think that I have forgotten the most important part of MY story, the part where I offered Him my life in gratitude for His. The theme of that narrative being that I am NOT in fact my own, and that I rely on the author of salvation as my mediator.

As for words. No more dissecting meanings to the point of non-existance. How absolutely absurd to equate feminism with feminity. There are countless of definitions in the scriptures, countless examples in my family line, and countless ways in which the Holy Spirit teaches what it means to be feminine. Fighting for a voice, fighting for a spot, fighting to be right, are not included in any of these. And as for the argument of degrees, degrees of feminism… There is no such thing as a little bit of feminist. This is as ludicrous as a German soldier saying, “I am just a little bit of Natzi. I don’t believe everything I follow…just parts of it.”

Your creativity when it comes to preying on an individual’s pride, is, I must say, extremely lacking. However I suppose we have made this a very easy mechanism to use against ourselves, so I won’t harp over this repetitive “teaching tool” you seem to rely on. What I do want to make very clear is that what you call “self actualization” is really a self serving, self seeking, self establishing root, that left unchecked has the potential to grow to insurmountable proportions. Were it not for Christ, were it not for Him protecting His own, I could have very easily gone years without being aware of the sickness within. The pride you aroused within me, a type of Spanish Moss- a gray gothic looking foliage feeding off its host, causing malnourishment, stripping its strength, and ironically rendering me unable to provide the quiet beauty and gentle growth to which I was called for.

Lastly, the appeal to the “savior complex”, the appeal to a woman’s heart for the hurting, and the way in which you turned this God-given capacity for healing into a harm. It is true, there is a call to assist the widow and the orphan. But this offering of love, of sacrifice, ought not to be put in your camp. To call benevolence “feminism”, is a contradiction of the highest degree. To take an “ism” that only looks inward, and say it can be applied across the board to help others and to look outward, is absolutely impossible. There is a battle going on, but not one in which we are called to fight, at least not with screams and fists and man against woman. The battle I am told of is NOT against flesh and blood, not against the gender I was designed to adore, to follow, and to respect.

So as I leave your windowless classroom of falseties and slander,
You ought to be aware that no matter how many times my “education”
may rear its ugly head and cause the war within to re-surface once again.
I will not remain victim to its lies, and I will not forever be enslaved in its prison.

Because
I cannot stand you.
Everything about your actuality.
From the way you move, to the way you speak, to the way you work.
…
and I know that the feeling is mutual
From the way I choose to move, to the way I choose to speak, to the way I choose to work.

To the way I choose to walk out of your classroom.

And I do.

Now as she goes,
Look,
Behold,
the old is gone
He has done a new thing.
Yes,
He has done

a new thing.
Because now she is thinking:
she would exchange all the learning of all her years, just to be here,
yearning to reflect His light, and dancing in it throughout the day.

A new thing…
Because now she is praying:
Lord , if it be your will, bring me a man to serve, someone who seeks after you and who I may in turn seek after. Lord let me raise a family with Him and follow lovingly where he leads. And, Lord… if that day never comes, please give me silent strength and discernment, and allow me to honor my earthly father until you take me home to serve at the feet of my Heavenly Father.

A new thing…
Because now she is rejoicing
at the beauty of her Designer,
and at the beauty of her design.

Airplane Observances

2008-09-22T02:54:00.000-07:00

During my alphabetical jaunt from FL to IL,
something...happened...
Yes.
See apparently one need not carry merely explosives to be a threat to passengers on a plane.
Oh no. I seem to be able to hold my ground sans weaponry.
Now I have never prided myself on being the most coordinated person, however I usually try to keep my gravitational and
directional disabilities to a low murmur on the rictor scale.
So for the following events, the blame shall be placed on cabin pressure.

Enter "heroine" of story. A seemingly innocent young girl, walking slowly down airpline aisle, gripping her ticket
and counting rows quietly to herself one by one. She reaches her designated seat destination and hurredly gets her things in order so the masses behind her can continue on their merry way. She holds her duffle over her head and proceeds to try to squeeze her small bag between two oversized suitcases. Nothing budges. She looks to her left and further on down the way. All overhead bins are filled exept for the small space above her spot. "Come on...just get in there", she whispers nervously under her breath, and then proceeds to give three Wheaties sized shoves. On the last round, victory is achieved, however, the extreme force of her bag jammed between two mammoth carryons, causes her (newly retrieved phone) to catapult out of it's side pocket at hurricane wind speeds, send itself rocketing into middle aged man's balding forehead, and then procedes to ricochet all the way down the aisle as if in some kind of sick, cell phone pin ball machine. Quick reflexes of embarrassement cause our culprit to LUNGE for her electronic device, however as she quickly bends down to retrieve the coma inducing communicator, she stands up a litle too quickly only to knock her own skull into the unyielding armrest of seat 28B. Wincing our character sheepishly makes the long trek home seat 7A ( with the mocking eyes of Memphis upon her). As she awkwardly steps over her flight buddy for the afternoon and smiles sheepishly at the man across the way who is now sporting a Nokia sized welt directly between his eyebrows she offers up an olive branch: "Hey, I am really so sorry about that, I am so sorry. Do you need some ice?" He assures her he is fine. Simply thankful it was a cell phone and not a laptop.
To which she agrees. Wholeheartedly.

Oh Northwest airlines. It was nice while it lasted.

Distractions of the nice variety.

2008-09-21T20:42:00.001-07:00

Dear Season #3,

I very much cannot wait to fall into you and your orange spice afternoons.

I have all my sweaters out, ready to catch you and wrap you up.

We'll have naps on your sweet plum piles of leaves, under your bright blue covers of sky.

And we'll take walks, lots of cherry cheeked walks-maybe talking and maybe not.
But mostly not. This is my favorite.

I know I always ask you to stay longer than you are able...

to stick around and make things a little better for us,
a little more brown apple cidery for us,
but you never do...

This year they say I should not be surprised.
They say I have passed GrownUpped-ness 101.
where we learn:
that anything falling is very shortlived.
from falling prices to falling in...

love,
the girl who secretly thinks you really are season #1.

P.S. yes but i don't know...
perhaps this time it will be different...

P.P.S. I knitted you a yellow lemon drop scarf while you were away.
But don't try to eat it! :)

Don't forget.

2008-09-17T06:24:00.000-07:00

Beata is talking to her parents on her way out the door.
When I ask how they are and what they are doing today,
she tells me that they are off to pick mushrooms at the base of the hill.
She tells me this as we cross bumper to bumper traffic and wearily make our way downtown,
still exhausted from the previous day at the office, from the previous week at the office, from the previous month...

Their kind of simplicity seems foreign to me so early in the morning...here they are walking slowly ,in and out of the shade, an occasional spider-web strand brushing against their cheek, spotting items for their evening supper.
Meanwhile I am a dissonant chord of to-go coffees and buzzing trains.

Yet I find I am yearning for their afternoon as if
as if it were something I have already experienced.

Is that possible? To know of a time or a place without actually knowing it?
To know of their forests without ever having traveled over the ocean?

I look at Beata, who is on the verge of screaming Polish profanities at the woman in front of us.
Just the night before she was in her red long john pajamas, doing cartwheels in the living room
and distinguising the roll of toilet paper that was for people and the roll of toilet paper that was for cats.
and just an hour ago, serving us breakfast of fortune cookies, chocolate, 1/2 a granola bar, a quaker oat cookie and homemade espresso.

How easily it is to forget.

Then I am reminded of a verse...
"The Lord is your shade at your right hand."
Such comfort in this, that He is:
Always. Constant. Close.

And so I think "yes".
rather, I know "yes."
That it is possible.

Because while I maybe not know the shade of the pines that tower above her parents as they reach to the ground and
feel the cool wet dirt on their hands...there is a shade, a peace, that is sweeter than any laundry- line Monday,
the source of all things simple and good. The source of Goodness itself.

And so I breathe deeply, and offer up a prayer of thanks.
That I won't be here forever,
and that while I am He will remind me of His prescence,
remind me that somday we will walk in forests together,
"far from these crowded streets".

Cat nap dreams and breathing under water.

2008-09-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight she is swimming.
Leaving the
Sidewalks,
Stop signs and
Traffic lights,
leaving it all with
T-shirt,
Shorts,
and Sandals.

Tonight she is swimming,
Holding her breath just below the surface level
just Silently
just Respectfully
just Thankfully:

! that thuh roolz$ cant' reech hur uhn-der whahter

and as she floats to the surface on her back and smiles simply up at the moon...
eVerYthing ElsE
sinks
to
the
sand...............................................................

tonight.
tonight she is swimming
and letting her mermaid hair
wave it all away.

Perspective

2008-09-13T22:47:00.000-07:00

What I would say to her:

"Your fashion doesn't get much better.
You'll get a little taller, and a little rounder. Your face however, will look the same.
You will lose your hidden grove of trees when you are 10. They will build a house there instead.
A really ugly one.
You won't be a marine biologist. But you will like going to aquariums allot.
You will still like books too, just as much if not more, but you will have less time to read them.
Your sisters will get married before you. Yes. It's true. And you'll be ok with it. Most days.
You get your own cat! But he will be your ruin.
You stop telling secrets to stuffed animals.
Instead you write them on sticky notes and hide them in journals.
Your God will sustain you. You don't know what this means now, but you will learn.
You will stop being shy.
You will start loving people.
You will still smuggle chocolate and still get in trouble for it.
You will manage to escape having blood drawn at least until you are 25. You will take great pride in this.
You will have more amazing people in your life than you could ever know.
You will miss an amazing person more than you could ever want to know.
You'll go on a trip with your grandma.
Your parents will still be there for you.
You'll meet a crazy polish woman and she will re-introduce you to something wonderful: your imagination.
You won't like cars or bills or olives or herring.
You stop listening to Raffi on tape.
You start buying albums your dad would like.
Your softball career never really takes off. But this is a good thing.
You'll be really restless for the majority of the time.
You will worry about not doing enough
and suffer for trying to do it all.
You will like writing letters, not just licking stamps.
You won't know how to say goodbye before Grandad dies.
You have to start wearing deodorant and a bra.
You will still have trouble falling asleep at night.
oh, and you will actually look forward to naptime."

What she would say to me:

you are wierda future girl....
let's play and
THEN,
mAC AND CHEEZUH!

Really?

2008-09-12T12:53:00.000-07:00

Rainboots are great because not only are they clunky and colorful and nostalgic etc. etc.
and they also serve a less glamorous yet necessary function of keeping socks dry.

What most people are not aware of is that not only do wet socks lead to the obvious pitfalls of head colds, foul smelling feet, and wrinkled toes...but this condition also has the distinct and powerful ability of catapulting damp electrical chills towards the brain. This in turn short circuits the cerebrum and performs a wet sock shock labotomy of sorts, impairing judgement and the ability to deduce things sensically...forever.

I have put extensive research into this and hypothemalized a great deal, as all good scientists do. (Ah yes, father, I have decided to be a scientist now, to just forego words entirely and take a stab at equasional numbery puzzles instead. I hope you will not be too disappointed).

Back to the theory at hand. I have come upon this conclusion by a simple act of reasoning, along with some empirical evidence.

Act of Reasoning:
There are alot of stupid people in the world.
Alot of people in the world do not wear rain boots.
Therefore, not wearing rain boots makes people stupid.

Still skeptical?
Well WHAT ELSE explains a conversation like the following?
(Note: While this may appear to be eavesdroppery, I beg to differ, and rather categorize the following documentation under "field testing".

Two rainbootless subjects walk into Algerian cafe and sit down at booth adjecent.
REPEAT: Neither wearing rain boots...and it is raining. Both subjects also have goatees.(aside: If rainboot hypothesis proves to be dead end, consider goatee a secondary culprit...). Subjects then order fruity crepes and discussion about "rage" ensues.

1. My numberology says that I don't belong to anyone and yet at the same time I belong to everyone.

2. I can most definately see this.

1.My zodiac and my instinct confirm it. And this is why I have these out of body experiences of anger.

.2 It makes perfect sense.

1. It totally does. Because spirituality is the ultimate practicality.

2. Yes, but on the same token hand, there is alot of power in rage.

1. Oh yes, most definately but i am working on being more assertive with it. Part of me can't really be blamed though.
It is all part of the polar shift that happens every 25,000 years.

2. Right, you know the birds are getting lost now in their migratory patterns.

1. Oh yes, I do. You know what that means. It means we need to really focus on perserving our energetic cycles together,
which is so ironic because I don't even care a give a &*%$ about moments in time anymore. I am so over time.

2. Ah, so you have been meditating more then?

1. Yes, most definately...mother father sister daughter brother. It all comes back to this. I have just been blown open lately and I can't get enough of the happy sadness....Ah! I remember now, 20 1/2 ration of those magnetic shifts.

2. Geez, that's gonna be crazy. Just like the Mayans disappeared those million years ago, and now we are next.

(silence)....

1. whelp, better eat up here. Oh wow, this is absolutely ethereal, you have GOT to try this, it will rearrange your chi.

.....................

Ah yes. All you doubting Thomas' of the sceintific field. I accept your humble apologies and am simply grateful to have been the vessle to expose this cultural problem as well as offer up a solution so quickly with minimal government investment and very few back lash.

Rainboots for all, please!
Rainboots...
For...
.All.

...warning: if the previously notated conversation was clear and logical...Target has a sale going on right now. in all sizes, of all colors.
It is never too late to start the healing process.

rediscovering paint

2008-09-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

Monday events.

2008-09-09T22:23:00.000-07:00

Am sitting watching pigeons under the L tracks heating lamp.
(For some reason Davis street's are operating)
The pigeons, as usual, are all crowded together, avoiding the rain.
They move around in struts and spasms,
but talk to each other in soothing tones.

One ventures out past the warmth.
The others stop and stare.
He approaches the cliff just above the tracks and then suddenly his claws grip the edge.
Teetering precariously over the electrical currents beneath him,
he flaps his wings...
and then flutters back from whence he came.

The others are hysterical. Gawking around repeating to each other,
“thank goodness, that was a close one!”
....

But you are birds! There is no such thing as close ones.

Ah, yes. The rain. One can understand the desire to stay grounded this evening...
but then what is your excuse every other day?

I contemplate walking over to discuss a few things with them.
Get down on their level. Eye to eye.

" Ahem. Don’t you know, there is more to being a bird than this, there is more than scraps of donuts and wild children bounding into your midst. There is more than this station and there is more than wires. Why, you winged things, do you banish yourself to the city walls and back alleys?
There! follow that road, at the end is the lake.
And there, follow that steeple, up there is the sun."

But they won't listen, They are perfectly content with buzzing electric heat lamps,
and the safety of the street.

...
it feels a little ridiculous judging birds-
flapping things without souls.
but it feels even more ridiculous upon realizing...
that perhaps,
perhaps i have a few heat lamps of my own.

Mind over Matter.

2008-09-07T18:31:00.000-07:00

How many nights does she wait by the water
with her handful of hope,
the little that is left of it?
She says you left without saying goodbye.
She says that is what they all say
and she scolds herself for recycled lines, despite their truths.
The Truth.
She says she thought she was brave enough to beat it.
But the fact is, here she sits with a skyline of sail boats and electric clouds,
ones she says she knows you would love
only love without saying.

How many times has she tried to say goodbye from this shore.
She says, always, just when she thinks she is through,
the waves wash in one more memory to lie shining at her feet.
She says she scoops them up and foolishly names them "faith",
pocketing each one as though they are rare shells.

How many nights does she spend in quiet confusion?
She says she wishes for a shipwreck of news.
She says she is looking for something to allow her to be done
but instead all she finds are these nights and these days,
this silence and solitude
and always the empty, unanswering horizon.

*photo copied from flickr.com/photos/ 96127391@N00/2587665389

Portrait of need.

2008-09-06T07:14:00.000-07:00

There are some days,
when for a few hours,
and by choices most likely not of my own,
the blindfold of selfish pride is removed
and He shows me where I have been walking,
and who I have been missing all this time.

"Here, look and see. See these women walking into the church basement, weary and hungry?
They are here every week with burdens you know not of...but looking for the answers that you do...
along with food. They need food...

and here, here is a 14 year old child. She goes to youth group because she is hoping someone will offer what she doesn't think she deserves. She is used by boys twice her age and is so calloused by neglect that she cringes at compliments and laughs when she admits to a lie....

and here, see the man on the street just before you run up the stairs to your train? He has lost hope. He doesn't ask for money like the rest. He sits in a pool of his own urine and wastes away for lack of food...but mostly for lack of love. He is one block from the church doors...and a mere arms length away from your hand."

And so nights like tonight I walk home,
blinded now instead by tears,
grateful to have been shown,
but overwhelmed at the work to be done,
confused by the state of it all,
wondering where He is in all of this,
but pleading to remain aware,
to let Him use what He can,
and take what He needs,

so that in time,
with His provision,
these stories will read differently.

Any thoughts, Audrey? Me neither.

2008-09-04T19:08:00.000-07:00

Working on essay entitled "Generation i ", but no where close to ready. ("Scholarly" essays are a pain...)

So this instead, for a break and to buy some time...and because rain tends to make us all ask the WHY
questions.

Why I Write:

Because no one asked me to.
Because I sing very very badly.
Because it makes me appreciate silence and tolerate noise.
Because paper is cheaper than oil paints.
Because it goes with coffee.
Because I like the way a pen feels in my hand.
Because I am still searching for my voice and sometimes get to hear a note or two in a paragraph.
Because it was my first love.
Because it helped me get over my second.
Because it helped me figure out my third...
Because I like dancing and writing is footwork on paper.
Because it gets my mind off numbers.
Because it doesn't cost me anything.
Because when I don't, I get mean.
Because when I do, it hurts.
Because it reminds me of what matters.
Because sometimes if I am lucky, He shows up, and I learn something new.
Because it teaches me to hear the things I see
and to imagine the things I don't.
Because it doesn't give me lung cancer.
Because it helps me sleep better.
Because it keeps me up all night.
Because i might still be able to do it when I'm 90.
Because it is the least expensive way to travel.
Because it gets me in trouble.
Because it sets me free.

Also,
Can I just say, Jane Eyre is an incredible book.
For women in particular I think...or maybe just single girls.
there are many themes to be explored, but a small one that I appreciate is how
she addresses the paradox of dealing with an independent mind but a dependent heart.
So there. that is my plug for the evening.

...and now I think my living room might be being flooded...
should probably go "check up on it" as Beyonce would say.

Take your Fish to Work Day.

2008-09-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

Excercises in Voices not my own:
(mom, emphasis on NOT, this has absolutely nothing to do with me,
it was just an experiment....thought i should make that as clear as possible.)

"Say Grace".

When you sit down for supper tonight, in your Pier 1 dining room and pick up your silver spoon to eat your chilled tomato bisque, make sure you look up and smile at your white toothed wife and concentrate on how perfectly perfect it all is at that moment.

Lock eyes... because if you don't, the color of the vintage Merlot in your fine cut crystal will catch your gaze and remind you of the color of my blood on your monogrammed, beige towels, the ones I grabbed when I cut my knees shaving. And once you remember the beige bloodied towels, then it will all come back.

The microwave meals, the orange velvet couch that smelled of cigarettes and old spice, the cat hair on your suits, the tantrums, the Doors, the trips, my finger nail clippings on your nightstand, shared spoons and unwashed dishes, the bobby pins, the missing money, the bottles, my midnight dances, thunderstorms, the leaky roof, not showering, always bathing,
my obsession with peeling your burnt skin, your obsession to stop me...

Lock eyes. Make sure you look at your cilicone wife with her palstic breasts and colligen smile. Make sure you stay focused on her and all that she brings you....

Because all it takes is one sideways glance ...for your wine to taste like my sweat,

and suddenly you'll remember how much you loved hating me,

and your whole, Whole foods meal will make you miss me your whole life.

Amy Grant almost got me evicted...

2008-09-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

"The most wasted of all days, is one without laughter." e.e. cummings* (Father, note, lack of caps is not mine on this one).

1. Oh Amy.

With today being a national holiday
the beach here gets extremely packed and we have an influx of all KINDS
of people making all KINDS of noise,
espcially in our courtyard.
Everyone is grilling out and laughing,
the dogs are barking, the music is playing etc.
just an all around grand ol time in the RP...

Well, I was making lunch with my ipod on shuffle in the background
and who should come on but
Amy Grant singing about her baby baby...
which therefore clearly meant that i had to turn it up.
(I mean let's be honest here, Amy Grant was not meant for Vol. 5.
She is certainly a level 13, if not higher.)

Now usually I am pretty low key when it comes to music in public places.
If I have headphones or am driving, forget about it, my ear drums are toast,
but around other people I am much more conservative and considerate.
TODAY however, well today EVERYONE was doing EVERYTHING loud,
so I figured I didn't really need to feel any form of guilt over cranking it to the roof.

Right?

Wrong.

1/2 way through the day her heart was put in motion, I heard
furious POUNDINGS on my door.

I quickly deduced that it was not my next door neighbors wanting to borrow a cup of sugar,
so I shut off the music and did what any brave female would do in the middle of peanut
butter and jelly concoction. I dropped to my knees, hid behind the
garbage can and waited, trembling.

I didn't have to wait long.

"Turn down the ________ song!"

And then footsteps...and then pause...and then footsteps down the stairs.

At first I was too stunned to move and then a little bit paralyzed by guilt.
But that regret quickly turned to rage because low and behold at that very moment I heard Hanson's MMMbop at
top notch from just across the way! And yet no one had bothered to rain in on THEIR 90's pop parade!

Dah! The injustice of it all!!!
So I did what any confident female would do in a predicament like this...
I slapped on my headphones and continued on with lunch in Vol. 13 peace.

2. Could we BE owning any more limes?

I have always heard it said that communication was the key to any lasting relationship.
And while I think that there are a few other keys necessary, I agree with this statement wholeheartedly.
Espcially after the following incident.

Now limes are undoubtedly a common summer necessity. They can be put in limeade, guacamole, Coronas, key lime pie...the list goes on.

However, while limes may indeed spell out fun in the sun there is absolutely no reason why this conversation should ever take place between two people

Beth: Hey...where are you?
Jessi: I'm in WI, what's up?
Beth: Oh...nothing, just cleaning the fridge...and well I was just wondering if you bought any limes lately?
Jessi: uh...yeah, I think I bought a few yesterday actually. I think we were running out and I didn't know if you were going to pick any up.Why? Do we need some more?
Beth: Um...maybe... if you and I are planning on starting our own fresh market.
Jessi: Oh, do we have a few extra?
Beth: If you would consider 27 limes "a few extra" then yes. Yes we do.
Jessi: WHAT?? How is that possible??
Beth: Well I pick some up occasionally too!
Jessi: OCCASIONALLY? It sounds like we both have been stockpiling for Lime2K! For crying out loud!
Beth: Yeah...so...maybe we might want to consider checking with each other first...as well as checking the actual produce bin...
Jessi: Good idea.
Beth: Thanks.

3. Ponglish.

Beata speaks a little bit of what I have termed "Ponglish". (I know, not rocket science concoction of a word here, but it fits how she talks, often mushing things together and creating meanings-Polish and English = Ponglish.

Anyways, work has been extremely busy this past month and I have found myself with little time to inquire the meaning of a newly coined phrase she began using on a regular basis. Throughout the day I would often hear:

That person is RETIRED.

Oh my gosh, talk about retirement.

Are you keeding me? i think you are retired!

Well she used this word again on our last lunch break and curiosity got the better of me.
I had to know what she meant-was she intending to mean that someone was out of work? older? moving to Florida?
What????

So I asked her. "Beata, what do you mean when you say retired?"

to which she replied, "Cookie, you are retired for asking me what retired mean. DOR-UH"....

silence while I processed...

"Beatka, do you mean "retarded"? as in someone who has a learning disability?"

silence while she processed...

"well shure, that word too, Cookie. yes, that is what I said! Retirded!!!!

Oh boy.
And now as I write this I am wondering if maybe I shouldn't have corrected her on this one.
She would be wrong, but at least she would be far outside the confines of being politically incorrect....

No Tuesdays with Morrie

2008-08-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

She sat right across the table from me, with those paper thin hands carefully wrapped around her coffee.
We were so close I could see every age spot, count the detailed wrinkles around each eye, even smell her soap when there was a breeze...
And yet at the end of her story...or the middle...or the beginning,

i couldn't help but feel an entire world apart.

i was looking at her, hearing things that happened to her,
but completely and utterly helpless to understand.
the events that she endured as a 12 year old girl during the Holocaust (and i shudder to use the word "events" )
were (and are) beyond my sphere of comprehension...

and yet how i need to hear!
and how, i think (maybe)...she needed to tell..

writers block is often, if not always at my doorstep.
but this is different.
each time i turn a page of notes, it's not that i do not know what to write
...it's that i don't know if it is my place

there is so much there-
and she remembers so much,
and in such vivid detail...

but they are HER memories. and her details.
her entire life she had things TAKEN from her.
books, food, clothes, her home, all the material things yes,
but so much more than that.
her family members. her identity. her freedom. her spirit.
her Faith.

and so who am i? a young american girl,
to sit at my desk and letter by letter, phrase by phrase, take away perhaps the only thing she really has left-
her story.

...
we are meeting once a week, every wednesday.
she said she thinks it would be good to talk more about it all...
as long as i promise to tell her about other things,
about lofty adventures, and good books, and interesting people.

so i promised.

and now wednsdays with Beatrice couldn't come sooner.

Big Brother

2008-08-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

Ok.
So i can't say for sure,
but i am almost positive i am being followed.
that's right.
by a secret intelligence agency.

granted, this conclusion could very well be coming off the hinges of my new obsession with the old "Alias" drama,
that and perhaps all of my "independent alone time" is just getting the better of me...

but i think it's more than that.
because i found THIS little number outside my apartment complex. (see above, and then avert your eyes in case they find you and question you and pull out your teeth one by one).

for those whose lives who have not yet been introduced to Sydney Bristow and SD6 and the CIA etc etc.,
you wouldn't understand, because you are still a blissfully unaware citizen..
ahh, the days when i knew not the tumultuous sea we swim in every day.
but for those of us who have seen the truth, seen the "dark side"...well we must always be on our guard.

which is why when i saw this yellow blow pop looking ring with a metal wire coming out of where the candy should be,
i apprehended the devise with the deftness of a veteran field agent and immediately took it back to lab to have the prototype examined.

top intel executives are looking into the bug more closely, but i have already compiled a list of all possible enemy forces and hired hitmen, those obviously wanting me and my double agent expertise to embrace a quick and painful end. i would like to think this is all a false alarm, but my training has me otherwise convinced.

i will keep you all informed as to my whereabouts within the hour.
look for my coordinates on a brown paper bag in the trash can outside of your local coffee shop.

this message will no longer exist in 2 secon...

Miracles Do Happen

2008-08-24T20:16:00.000-07:00

Much to my dismay, an influx of activity these past couple weeks has left little time for reflection
and even less time for documentation.

Example: (Walking back to sit with mom on the beach :
"So, did you write something good?"
"No. all of it is quite dreadful actually."

So for now, the moment of magic that I am able to articulate at such a late hour, and after such an exhausting schedule...
is a tiny victory involving his Royal Highness and a water spout...

Now i am well aware of the line that needs to drawn between a pet and it's owner.
I can say most assuredly that I will never pay for Fitz to have cataract surgery, or physical therapy for arthritis, any form of spa treatment to decrease shedding etc.
however...
i have noticed that when it comes to the smaller things....
things like brands of food, or climate temperatures, or how the house is decorated, or the distance of his litterbox to his foodbowl, or the way in which he likes to be scratched, played with, or adored...
well i will be the first to sheepishly admit, that either i have undergone some kind of electric shock brainwash treatment...
or am just much more of a pushover than i thought...because when he said jump, i always put on my Nikes and asked "how high?"

this unattractive and weak form of adoration was most evident in a little ritual that beth and i lovingly referred to as the "rise and whine." basically it involved Fitz screaming at the top of his lungs at 4:30 in the morning for us to get up and turn the shower faucet on, since clearly he couldn't be bothered to drink out of a BOWL, and clearly he needed fresh SPRING water and not day old PEASANT water. for weeks one of us would begrudgingly stumble out of our beds in a drunken dream like stupor and adhere to his fanciful demands.

i am not sure when the epiphany came, or what conditions led us to see the truth of our slavery...
but somehow our eyes were opened to the insanity of it all, and we decided to take matters into our own hands....

so... naturally...
i purchased the DRinkwell 5000, a "vet-approved, pet-friendly devise, created for cats and dogs alike-designed to improve healthy bladder conditions as well as provide your animal with the element of fresh quality they DESERVE".

truth be told, this purchase was made with much trepadation and scepticism. many items have been brought home with these feline creatures in mind only to find that our gifts were not "royalty worthy". i cannot even begin to count the number of "catnip mice" i own that lay by the wayside, young,petstore toy virgins, untouched and unnoticed.

regardless of these concerns, desperation and lack of sleep caused me to lay the good money down.
and i brought it home and filled it up and plugged it in.
and the spout gurgled and flowed and did what the box advertised it would do.
a few prayers were said over this humming little Niagra and we continued on with the day secretly hoping for signs of improvement, of change, of hope...

well, after many a restless hour...i am pleased to announce, that our time has come!!!
because wonder of all wonders, miracle of all miracles...
after his afternoon snack, the mighty beast stepped down from his golden throne and silently deemed the new "liquid giving appliance" "acceptable."

and the people rejoice!!!!!

in all of this i have learned-
that
Happiness is: getting a cat do to do exactly what you want it to do...
and obtaining one more hour of sleep before 5:30 food call.

Oh dear.

2008-08-18T15:11:00.000-07:00

WHAT: Yesterday I jumped out of a plane.
Actually, scratch that.
Yesterday I let a middle aged Yugoslavian man strap himself to my back and push me out of a plane.
Yes. that is more accurate.

WHY:
Most of the time I find myself leading a pretty quiet life, nestled between bookshelves,
hiding behind coffee cups, or napping with the cats...but every once in a while..."it"...shows up...and i am forced to be a good hostess, whether I like it or not.

"it".

being the infamously undescribable awareness that there are places...a place?,
that books cannot take us and stories cannot convey
the knowledge of somewhere we came from but don't quite rememer how to get back to...

i think thats is why its so important to pay attention and surrender to those oppurtunities that bring us
closer to the horizion, closer to the Truth of who God created us to be, and closer to the greatness of His plans for us-
plans as vast and limitless as the sky.

WHO: With one of my good friends, who's zeal for life is inspiring. And whos bootcamp encouragement tecnique of "LETS DO THIS JENSEN" kept me from excusing myself to the ladies room and hitch hiking back home.

WHEN:
Yesterday! Apparently the same weekend that Bill Murray went sky diving. So yes, I take this to mean that I am famous by association now.

HOW
I am not quite sure. One minute i remember signing some papers about how I won't demand astronomical sums of money should I become severely disfigured or critically DEAD in any way...and the next minute I'm stupified and squatting on the door's edge of a plane, thousands of miles from the ground.

go figure.

and lastly, not a journalistic question, but a question none the less:
"What was going through your mind before you jumped out?"

Two things:
1. I hope beth remember to feed the cats if i die.
2. I want to go back to school.

So....
There's that.

Gifts

2008-08-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of my new old typewriter.
This is a picture of me smiling.
This is a picture of the best and worst parts of writing: plunks and dings and movement and muscle and maintenance.
This is a picture of secret wishes.
This is a picture of God knowing his own.
This is a picture of the future,
The past,
This is a picture of a present.
This is a picture of my new,old typewriter.

2008-08-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

How do you hit someone like her?
She who has the softest, smallest hands that can fix anything?
How do you scream such nasty things?
She who whispers Polish lullabies at the most necessary times?
How do you burn her skin, her spirit with your cigarettes
She who swims at dawn and flies at dusk.

You will never admit it,
but she is so much stronger than you could ever hope to be.
And if I could help her move the last of her pots and plants and Chinese lanterns to the other side of the world, I would.
But I don’t have a car, and she doesn’t want to leave her cat.
So we sit on the floor of her secret one room apartment in silence,
Knowing just how close it came…and grieving just how far it went.

You who reason in rage,
You are a fool to think you have won.
Because some day her hands will stop shaking
And some day she will sing again,
And some day I will wave to her once more from the sand.

It’s just that today is not that day.
Today He has brought her to a quiet place of rest,
Away from your anger, and your words, and your burns.
And He’ll stay watch over her as He does every night,
And she’ll dream dreams of home, of heaven, of times when she was happy,
Of times when she wasn’t always weeping, always asking:

“how?....”

*posted with permission

Why I would not be a good mother.

2008-08-03T21:23:00.000-07:00

Brushshshsh
your.
teeth.
twice twice
and fllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooosssssssssssssss.

Then you can eat as much chocolate as you want.

reading is important.

2008-08-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. Shall I not call God the Beautiful, who daily sheweth Himself so to me in his gift? I chide society, I embrace solitude, and yet I am not so undgrateful as not to see the wise, the lovely, and the noble minded, as from time to time they pass my gate...
High thanks I owe to you excellent lovers who carry out the world for me to new and noble depth, and enlarge the meaning of all my thoughts." Emerson

"The only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes 'AWWW!'"
-Jack Kerouac (from On the Road)

"Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order."
Woolf

"Continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving. At the same time, pray also for us,
tat God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ, on account of which I am in prison-that though I make it clear, which is how I ought to speak.
Conduct yourselves wisely twoard outsiders, making the best use of the time. Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person."
Col: 4:2-5

...*post revised after "incident" on metra.

reading is still important...however the art of letting words and wisdom become part of your core...letting them sink into the marrow of your bones...well this is of the UTMOST importance...and ironically, INSANELY difficult.

take for example-this evening's train ride home from the city.
it was a late one. the last one.
there was an influx of guys all throughout each box car, all very unruly and all very very drunk.
the scene was all too familiar, as i have witnessed this re-run for months.
the story is always the same. each time get would get off at my stop utterly disgusted and completely shocked, because without fail it always turned out that these "upstanding citizens" were representing the US Naval Base.
I have heard some of the most ignorant, disrespectful, degrading, and abusive language come out of their mouths right in front of women and children. and every time i would sit in silence and shake my head and wonder why i didn't come out and say something.

well tonight i said something. actually, tonight i said many things.
and while i would like to say i am proud of myself for "taking a stand"-
i did it in such an unloving, "unseasoned" unrespectful way,
that i am having a really hard time patting myself on the back.

"Conduct yourself wisely towards outsiders."
...

yes, Lord. but surely I was right in this situation.
...
"
Let your speech always be gracious..."

but they needed to hear the TRUTH about their actions and how ignorant they are!

..."declare the mystery of Christ....

The mystery of Christ was the last thing I declared tonight.
Instead I declared them un-intelligent, a disgrace to themselves and a disgrace to what they stand for...

AND,
there is more.
I would not have actually come to the conclusion that this little tyrade of mine was out of line if not for my friend,
who saw fit to gently come along side me and offer up the conclusion that what I displayed and communicated to those men was not out of concern or love or respect-rather it had the root of anger and the thistly blossom of disdain. That there was nothing wrong with the point I was attempting to make, but the issue of the heart, where all of it was coming from, was extremely off base.
wow. nothing like a good dose of truth...

"high thanks i owe to you excellent lovers....enlarging the meaning of my thoughts."

i love words. reading them, writing them, playing with them...
but sometimes... their Truths force you to LIVE them.
a task so much more difficult than any stream of consciousness,
succinct outline, or children's poem.

...

b and Buggy and me

2008-07-25T21:43:00.000-07:00

camping trip
reminscing from younger days...
before there were husbands....:)

5:30 a.m.
our ceiling looks and feels like the oil canvases mom used to use

the sun got up early to paint today.
but he isn't using the familar broad strokes of gold.
instead, he is experimenting with shadows and sounds.

i am watching the creation quietly.
and the two of you?
you are sleeping around me,
one on each side,
quietly watching your dreams.

5:35 a.m.
always a quick painter,
now displayed above us are the silouhettes of leaves and trees and moths,
all accented with the sporatic rythm of leftover raindrops.
i am smiling and whispering to the three of us how beautiful it all is.
now i am scolding myself for being so cliche.

you turn on your side and sigh.
and you, you scratch your nose unkowingly.

is what you are both seeing in there as wonderful as what i've just seen...as what i'm seeing?

i'm still smiling.
but now it's not because of moving shadows,
or your freckles
or your heavy breathing

it's beause of this sudden realization that the moths aren't the main subjects of this painting.

more thoughts on my sisters: (from cancun devos)
On our walk this morning, Sarah said, "Gray skies are just a darker shade of blue."
I think this is such a prfound statement. The majority of the time we have been here it has rained, but that hasn't stopped us. In fact, from walking in the rain to wsimming in the pool in the rain, to swimming in the ocean in the rain, to doing devo's in teh rain, it is a royal wonder our entire bodies aren't pruned all over. As I was taking a shower this evening I kept thinking how wonderful, how absolutely wonderful it is to be surrounded by two of the things i love most: water and my sisters.

This trip has only confirmed what i already knew, that what the 3 of us have is really something quite special. Granted there are elements to our relationship where we most definately put alot of work and effot into, but there is something else here, a gift, the prescece of the holy spirit, allowing for this type of closeness.
Because even as we change, His constant presence remains.
And oh how we have changed.

Sarah is finding her voice and is quickly becoming one of the most elegant women i have ever seen and interacted with. She has always had a quiet beauty about her, but as she has rooted herself in the Lord all these years, she has grown into something breathtaking.

Bethany, how i admire her sharp mind and discerning heart. Somehow, she has gotten stronger and softer at the same time. I don't know how this duality is possible, but it is so evident and it makes being around her like being in the shade of powerful and nourturing tree. She also truly has the heart of an artist. Which is one of the reasons I think she is such a good leader.

....

Cheers, Darling

2008-07-20T19:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom and Dad,
Have arrived safely at 25-
had few valuables lost along the way,
but am apparently in one piece...
....

view is different than anticipated...
but accomodations nice and townsfolk friendly

think i will hang around these parts for a while,
maybe even a year...
walk the trails, see the sights-
bring back some souveneirs? (sp?)

tell the others i got the sunscreen and mix cds...
and not to worry about me traveling alone-
have a good Tourguide.

thinking of you each day...
bet you are wishing you were here... ;)

all my love,
the elderest.

**********other less self directed thoughts on growing up************

one can think more clealry
walking home in warm summer rains
or falling asleep to humid summer storms

there has been a generous amount of both of these lately
and this mess of fragments is what has come about:

- "the open door policy" that my parents and their college church friends remember back to and miss-
discussing this over sushi and wondering where this dynamic has gone to?
that kind of accountability with acts of sharing, of not fearing the others judgement, but boldly entering into circles of service, of submission, of prayer.

-80 year old Dwight from uptown, weeks ago, looking at me in the eye after having been assulted in the streets and rather than lashing out in bitterness and turning himself inward, is asking "why the church has a house so big with so many rooms, with no one using them, why he's never seen me before that night, and why don't we play chess together?"

-how a spirit can be renewed over coffee and biscotti, good conversation and smiling children

-the miracles that happen when a family unit gives their all for someone-sarah's wedding and this definition of beauty,
and her and ryan representing Christ and the Church...

-night at Ravinia listening to Feist, with 4 different groups of people, the majority of us not knowing one another, but sitting down and eating and laughing and listening to good music and staring up at the stars...how this felt like a church service in some strange way

-"rah rah, babe".

-community being somethng everyone craves and so few ask for

-how we all have different roles in this-some are hosts/planner, connectors, free spirits, subdude appreciatve types

-how polish people never cross their arms when they are talking to you, they think it is rude and closed off

-old friends resurfacing during new life changes, and how sometimes their struggles and joys are mirror images of your own, and you are able to encourage the other and be encouraged at the same time- (thank you, for the reminder of"heavenly breezes...setting our sails to that wind, keeping our hands steady on the mast...)...

-lessons in Hebrews, of Chapter 11 being about veils, of looking beyond...always always looking beyond in Faith...

-camping is great, beause there are no walls, no doors, just thin pieces of fabric and one fire pit and the sky.

don't really know what to make of all this...
am just very thankful to be witnessing/learning/struggling

very disorganized-blame it on the rain.

Canyons

2008-07-17T16:39:00.000-07:00

The gap between the 5:30 morning train and the 6:30 morning train is vast. much wider than an hours difference. There is a different movie playing-with different characters, a different setting,a different plot. In one morning's ride, I become... stronger, while riding shoulder to weary shoulder with the working class.

The working class. Those on their feet at dawn and remaining so until dusk. Our faces are a mix of grogginess and understanding when we lock eyes. I am not afraid of the men on the corner or the woman talking loudly to herself and her imaginary third party...because in some strange way, this hidden hour becomes the golden hour-one in which shared pain, and labor, and loss, have brought us all a secret sense of kinship. A kinship not found on the 6:30 Starbucks train.

Hmmm...

2008-07-16T19:46:00.000-07:00

it can be safe to assume that one is on the quickfire route to steadfast singledom
when one finds themselves downtown chicago at "hip/trendy/" pub eating pizza place,
and instead of exchanging numbers and schmoozing with "hip/trendy" boys,
is sitting in corner with their best friend vigorously exclaiming,

"CAT"S ARE REMARKABLE!!!!" *

*insert wild Italian hand gestures here.

Lunch with Beatka

2008-07-16T19:04:00.001-07:00

The two of us rested wearily on the church steps, me on my back gazing
up at the one of Evanston's last Dutch Elm trees and she up propped
against a copper stuatue of some catholic patron saint.
I turn my head to stare up at her, and find her Athena eyes shining
with the depth of her thoughts. She is missing it more than usual
today...and I need to hear of places other than here... so I begin.
Knowing it is never enough to simply ask for handouts for stories of
Poland I instigate with a typical statement of "American ignorance."

"I want to take a trip to the mountains someday. I love the mountains."

"American mountains are not mountains. You don't know what you are
talking about."

Shading my eyes with the back of my hand,I gaze upward."

"What do you mean...?"

She is quiet and and her face is distanst...but not with disinterest.
Her mind is taking her there. And so I wait, squinting at a squirrel
with my right eye, then the left, then the right again-to make him
move without moving.

She sighs a homesick sigh and I settle into the sun. I know she is
there now, and now she will begin to tell me what she sees.

"The polish mountains are unlike any other. God himself walks there.
Such Beauty and Splendor do not exist where He is not. there are
lakes, lakes we call the...how you call it? Sea eye?"

..."eye of the sea?"

"yes, With waters deep, clear and blue. The trees are trees you can
talk to, with wisdom from long ago, standing like kings so tall and
proud. Everything there is pure and still. The colors cannot be
caught...the air teaches you to breathe..."

She continues on, and the sound of her voice and summer winds merge
together to become a Polish lullably with all the magic and fantasy of
the mountain forests. I fall lazily, in and out of consciousness now-
a time traveler.

the church steps to diamond covered waters
the church steps to boulders laden with moss of flueorescent green
the church steps to a cottage at the foot of the incline with linens
blowing in the wind...
the church steps to.
the church bell,
ringing 1,
ringing the end of my journey.

we leave the spot in silence,
and recluctantly make our way back into the flurescent lights of the
office. We put our bags on the lunch table littered with american news
and american stars and american drama...

the Dr. is asking everyone where we went for lunch.

i leave the room in a secret smile.

Polonia. We went to Polonia.

Guilty as Charged

2008-07-16T18:37:00.000-07:00

during really busy days, we don't have much time to eat lunch.
since i am usually picking and eating on things 24/7 ,
this poses as a bit of a problem.i find myself zoning out, thinking about different food items in the middle of really inoppurtune times, say for example, retracting someones tongue. i will be right in the middle of a banana smoothy daydream when all of the sudden, "jessi....jessi...JESSI, retraction".
not good.
ANYWAYS, so yesterday i was having one of these particularly difficult days, and could NOT get my mind of this amazing piece of cherry chocolate cake in the break room. (a real piece of cake mind you, not fictional)
ioh yes. t was calling to me. on redial.

ok well, being the genius that i am, i suddenly had the brilliant idea to go indulge in a few bites while the dr. took the impression for the crown. it is always a 5 min ordeal and i thought that this would be plenty of time to partake of sweet chocolaty goodness, have a swig of milk, and be back with plenty of time to spare.

hm.
so this i did. with much excitement.
the cake was everything i imagined it would be and more.
we had no forks or utensils, but this did not stop me.
i had plenty of time to clean up.
to say i enjoyed each bite would be an understatement...

but the sweetness of this moment was soon tainted by the following events.

i have always heard that time flies when you are having fun,
but no one every told me that time flies when you are eating cake.
in fact. it doesn't just fly, it moves at star gate galactica speed.

because the next thing i know, i am up to my elbows in chocolate frosting,
when the break room door busts open and the dr. runs in, masks, gloves, loop glasses and all, to find his assistant... in her moment of confection weakness
he didn't even say anything. he just shined his headlight on the cake,
then up at my face, then down on my hands,
and walked out of the room.

good Lord.
embarrassment does not even begin to cover the depth of my shame.

and the kicker of it all.
after i had cleaned up and ran back to the room to finish up the procedure...
the dr. finishes on the patient and while talking to him, looks at me and says,
"there we go, bill, i told you that would be a piece of cake."

maybe someday i will llaugh at this.
but today is not yet the day....
ooh, i gotta go,
i think i still have some butter cream under my nails...